MKERS 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


MAKERS  OF 
AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

A  Class-Book  on  American  Literature 


BY 

EDWIN  W.  BOWEN,  A.  M.,  Ph.  D. 

Formerly  Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Missouri,  Now  Professor  of 
Latin  in  Randolph-Macon  College;  Author  of  "  An  Historical  Study  of  the  O- Vowel  in 
English,"  Etc. 


New  York  and  Washington 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1908 


Copyright,     1908,     by 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


B7U 


Discipulis  Prioribus  et  Fidelibus  Amicis 


2S7294 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

INTRODUCTION   11 

I'llAl'TKi;. 

I.  THE  COLONIAL  PERIOD 17 

II.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 2D 

III.  WASHINGTON  IRVING 53 

IV.  JAMES   FENIMOKE   COOPER 78  * 

\  V.  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 103 

VI.  WILLIAM  HICKLING  PBESCOTT 139 

VII.  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 159 

VIII.  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 193 

IX.  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 221 

X.  HENRY  WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW 249 

XI.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 266 

XII.  JOHN  GREENLEAP  WHITTIEH 293 

XIII.  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 325 

XIV.  SIDNEY  LANIER 348 

XV.  WALT  WHITMAN 371 

BIBLIOCU.UMIY   405 


PREFACE 

The  present  volume  is  designed  as  a  guide,  in  a 
general  way,  to  the  study  of  American  literature. 
It  is  of  course  not  a  history  of  American  literature. 
It  purports  simply  to  discuss  and  consider  the  lit- 
erary achievement  of  our  leading  American  auth- 
ors,— those  who  stand  out  most  conspicuously  in  a 
general  survey  of  our  literature  and  who  are  recog- 
nized among  the  foremost  makers  of  American  lit- 
erature. 

No  attempt  is  made  in  the  following  chapters  to 
assign  the  authors  considered  their  relatively 
proper  place  in  our  literature.  That  would  be  a 
hazardous  undertaking  even  for  a  thorough  scholar 
and  most  competent  critic,  and  the  writer  of  this 
book  is  fully  aware  that  he  does  not  possess  the  nec- 
essary qualification  for  the  successful  performance 
of  so  difficult  and  delicate  a  task. 

Each  essay  is  followed  by  a  selection  from  the 
writings  of  the  author  discussed,  in  order  to  illus- 
trate his  style. 

Several  of  the  papers  comprising  the  following 
chapters  have  been  previously  printed  in  magazines. 
These  papers,  I  need  hardly  state,  have  been  revised 
and  adapted  to  the  plan  of  the  present  volume.  For 
permission  to  use  these  I  wish  here  to  express  my 
thanks  to  the  editors  of  the  following  journals :  the 
Forum,  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  the  Lutheran 
Quarterly,  the  Presbyterian  Review,  the  Sewanee 
Review,  and  the  Methodist  Review. 

The  selections  from  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  O.  W.  Holmes, 


PREFACE 


J.  G.  Whittier,  and  J.  K.  Lowell  are  published  by 
permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with, 
Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Company,  the  authorized  pub- 
lishers of  their  works. 

The  selection  from  Irving  is  published  by  the  con- 
sent and  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  that 
from  Prescott  by  the  consent  and  permission  of  the 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

The  selection  from  Lanier  is  published  by  permis- 
sion of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  the  authorized  publishers  of  his 
works ;  and  the  selections  from  Bryant  and  Whitman 
by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with, 
D.  Appleton  &  Company,  the  authorized  publishers 
of  their  works. 

To  all  of  these  publishers  I  wish  to  express  my 
grateful  thanks  for  permission  to  quote  from  their 
respective  publications;  and  also  to  Mr.  Horace 
Traubel,  the  literary  executor  of  Walt  Whitman, 
I  here  express  my  hearty  appreciation  of  his  kind 
consent  to  use  the  selection  from  Whitman. 

No  one  is  more  conscious  of  the  many  imperfec- 
tions of  this  little  volume  than  myself,  and  I  feel 
that  I  must  beg  the  reader's  kind  indulgence  as  I 
send  it  forth  on  its  mission  into  the  world. 


EDWIN  W.  BOWEN. 


Randolph-Macon  College,  Virginia, 
November,  1907. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  question  is  sometimes  asked,  Is  there  really 
an  American  literature?  To  this  question  the  im- 
partial and  discriminating  student  of  the  litera- 
luivs  of  the  two  great  English-speaking  nations  of 
the  world  must  surely  make  an  affirmative  reply. 
For  American  literature  is  as  different  from  Eng- 
lish literature  as  the  typical  American  is  different 
from  the  typical  Englishman.  To  be  sure,  the  liter- 
ary product  of  the  two  countries  is  related,  and 
there  consequently  exists  a  family  resemblance,  so 
to  say,  just  as  the  two  peoples  are  related  and  have 
much  in  common.  But  the  two  nations  are  sepa- 
rated by  the  broad  Atlantic  and  differ  essentially 
from  each  other;  and  this  essential  national  differ- 
ence is  reflected  in  the  literary  product  of  the  kin- 
dred peoples. 

American  literature,  it  need  hardly  be  remarked, 
is  centuries  younger  than  English  literature  and 
hence  less  rich,  less  copious  and  less  varied.  It  is 
also  true  that  American  literature  sprang  from 
English  literature  and,  in  its  humble  beginning,  is 
not  to  be  distinguished  from  the  literature  of  the 
mother  country.  The  first  American  writers  were 
simply  transplanted  Englishmen,  who  wrote  under 
the  inspiration  and  stimulus  of  British  literary 
traditions  and  ideals,  until  the  physical  conditions 
of  climate  and  country  coupled  with  the  patriotic 
idea  had  their  perfect  work,  and  in  due  course  of 
time  a  new  nation  was  born.  With  the  growth  and 
development  of  the  national  independence  there 
developed  apace,  like  the  child  from  the  parent,  a 


12  INTRODUCTION 


distinctive  national  literature.  Thus  American 
literature  is  to-day  essentially  and  radically  differ- 
ent from  English  literature,  and  this  difference  is 
increasing  with  the  passing  years.  It  follows 
therefore  that  American  literature  is  much  farther 
removed  from  English  literature  at  the  present  day 
than  it  was  a  century  ago. 

It  is  a  fact  as  interesting  as  it  is  unique  that  the 
United  States  and  England,  though  speaking  the 
same  tongue,  still  have  two  distinct  and  independent 
literatures.  Yet  the  explanation  is  not  far  to  seek. 
It  is  simply  the  natural  outgrowth  of  political 
causes  and  events.  If  the  literature  of  a  country 
is  really  the  expression  of  the  people's  thoughts  and 
emotions,  their  political,  social  and  ethical  ideals,— 
in  a  word,  the  people's  life  in  the  broadest  and  deep- 
est sense  of  that  term, — then  it  is  perfectly  natural 
that  American  literature  should  be  distinct  and 
different  from  English  literature.  For  surely 
these  two  peoples  have  distinct  and  different  ideals 
and  aspirations  and  different  national  entities. 
These  characteristic  national  differences  are  re- 
flected of  course  in  the  literatures  of  the  respective 
peoples.  It  is  a  mere  accident  that  the  two  nations 
use  the  same  language.  And  yet  even  the  language 
is  not  entirely  the  same  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlan- 
tic. Horace's  phrase,  athe  estranging  ocean," 
seems  especially  apropos  in  view  of  the  noteworthy 
differences  in  the  use  of  our  common  vernacular  in 
England  and  America.  The  language  appears  to 
have  undergone  some  striking  modifications  on 
American  soil,  both  in  mode  of  utterance  and  in 
form  of  expression.  These  American  variations 
from  the  Uritisli  original  are  so  decided  as  to  serve 
as  a  shibboleth  to  differentiate  American  English 
from  British  English.  No  doubt  time  will  accen- 


INTRODUCTION  13 

tuate  these  variations,  and  a  century  hence  the  dif- 
ferences between  the  two  great  branches  of  our 
common  speech  will  be  even  more  marked  than  they 
are  to-day.  . 

Literature  in  its  broadest  sense  is  the  interpre-\^ 
tation  of  life,  national  and  individual,  political  and  ^ 
social.  Just  as  British  authors  have  interpreted 
English  life  in  the  successive  periods  of  that  na- 
tion's existence,  so  our  American  writers  have  en- 
deavored, during  the  first  century  of  our  nation's 
history,  to  interpret  American  life,  and  our  con- 
temporary writers  are  essaying  to  do  likewise. 
But  it  is  no  slight  undertaking  to  interpret  accu- 
rately and  adequately  the  varied  and  complex  as- 
pects of  our  modern  American  life  in  terms  of 
literature.  The  first  attempts  of  our  American 
writers  in  this  direction  were  quite  feeble,  and 
naturally  enough  our  early  writers  followed  in  the 
beaten  paths  of  British  authors  and  lacked  origi- 
nality and  initiative. 

American  literature  is  mainly  a  product  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Our  Colonial  writers  were 
few  and  followed  British  models  .so  closely  in  theme  * 
and  method,  and  drew  their  inspiration  so  gener- 
ally from  that  source,  that  they  failed  to  pro- 
duce any  writings  distinctively  American.  They 
did  not  portray  American  characters ;  they  did  not 
paint  American  scenes;  they  did  not  depict  Ameri- 
can life  except  in  so  far  as  American  life  was  a  re- 
flection of  English  life.  Being  under  the  domi- 
nance and  inspiration  of  British  ideals  and  tradi- 
tions, our  Colonial  writers  naturally  saw  American 
life  through  British  spectacles,  which  so  colored 
their  thought  and  emotion  as  to  make  their  pro- 
ductions British  rather  than  Americajn.  Washing- 
ton Irving  was  the  first  American  writer  to  make  a 


14  INTRODUCTION 


departure  from  the  beaten  track  and  to  blaze  out  a 
path  for  himself  in  literature.  He  was  therefore  a 
pioneer  who  discarded  the  old  literary  landmarks 
and  pointed  out  a  better  way  to  Americans  of  his 
generation  aspiring  to  be  men  of  letters.  The 
example  of  his  success  soon  infected  others,  and  at 
length  American  literary  independence  was  estab- 
lished, not  long  after  the  establishment  of  our  polit- 
ical independence.  The  time-honored  literary 
traditions  of  the  mother  country  shattered,  Ameri- 
can writers  were  thrown  upon  their  own  resources 
and  were  compelled  to  seek  for  themes  and  inspira- 
tion in  our  own  American  life  and  on  our  own 
American  continent.  So  our  literary  independence 
followed  in  the  wake  of  our  political  independence, 
and  America  has  to-day  a  distinct  national  litera- 
ture as  a  logical  result  of  our  distinct  national 
existence.  The  rapid  and  rich  flowering  of  Ameri- 
can literature  is  a  fit  subject  for  felicitation,  alto- 
gether creditable  to  our  people.  Nor  has  this  matter 
failed  to  challenge  the  admiration  of  the  foremost 
men  of  letters  of  the  Old  World,  who  view  with 
amazement  our  phenomenal  literary  development 
quite  as  much  as  the  statesmen  of  European  nations 
view  our  marvelous  political  development. 

In  writing  a  brief  history  of  American  literature, 
it  is  necessary  that  a  great  many  names  be  omitted 
which  would  clamor  for  mention  in  a  more  compre- 
hensive treatise.  A  complete  treatise  would  have 
to  include  all  those  writers  who  have  contributed, 
in  any  manner,  by  their  productions  to  swell  the 
literary  output  of  America.  But  such  a  volume 
would  probably  be  more  exhaustive  than  critical. 
For  it  would  necessarily  include  contemporary  as 
well  as  past  writers,  the  living  as  well  as  the  de- 
ceased; and  no  critic,  however  unbiased,  can  see 


INTRODUCTION  15 

juid  represent  a  living  author  in  his  true  and  proper 
perspective.  Furthermore,  some  of  our  contempo- 
rary writers  may  have  contributed  far  more  gener- 
ously to  the  making  of  American  literature  than 
any  of  our  authors  whose  activity  ceased  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  Yet  the  plan  of  this  volume 
precludes  special  mention  of  any  such  writer,  how- 
ever important  his  work  and  influence  may  be  in 
the  history  of  American  literature,  simply  because 
he  is  still  living.  In  a  treatise  like  the  present 
which  from  the  nature  of.  the  case  cannot  include 
all  of  our  American  writers,  the  principle  of  selec- 
tion must  be  adopted  and  applied  as  wisely  as  may 
be.  Representative  authors  must  be  chosen  who 
are  universally  recognized  as  the  literary  leaders  of 
America,  the  most  prominent  figures  in  the  history 
of  American  literature. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  critics  are  agreed 
as  to  the  relative  rank  and  merits  of  each  of  our 
prominent  American  writers.  Nor  is  it  to  be  ex- 
pected that  there  should  be  unanimity  of  opinion 
as  to  what  authors  should  be  included  in  a  com- 
pendium like  the  present.  For,  after  all,  it  may  be 
a  debatable  question  just  who  are  the  makers  of 
American  literature,  in  the  restricted  sense  of  the 
term,  and  hence  this  seems  a  legitimate  field  for  dif- 
ference of  opinion.  However,  there  can  hardly  be 
any  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  including 
all  the  authors  here  discussed.  Some  critics  may  be 
disposed  to  inquire  what  was  our  guiding  principle 
in  the  matter  of  selection.  The  reply  is,  that,  in 
the  first  place,  we  have  aimed  to  include  those 
authors  whose  productions  are  clearly  of  a  high 
order  of  merit  and  have  contributed  in  an  appreci- 
able and  material  manner  to  the  enrichment  of  our 
literature;  and  in  the  second  place,  we  have  rigidly 


16 


INTRODUCTION 


excluded  all  living  writers.  Of  course  it  is  an  in- 
disputable fact  that  some  of  our  contemporary  men 
of  letters  have  greatly  enriched  American  litera- 
ture by  their  generous  and  enduring  contributions. 
Yet,  for  obvious  reasons,  no  living  author  may  prop- 
erly be  here  discussed  since  the  lapse  of  time  is, 
above  all  things,  essential  to  furnish  the  true  per- 
spective, in  order  critically  and  accurately  to  weigh 
and  determine  any  writer's  accomplishment.  It  is 
true  that  additional  authors  who  are  not  excluded 
by  the  latter  principle  might  have  been  selected  for 
discussion.  But  a  line  had  to  be  drawn  somewhere 
and  it  seemed  the  part  of  wisdom  to  err  on  the  scoi 
of  exclusion  rather  than  that  of  inclusion. 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  COLONIAL  PERIOD 

The  first  products  of  American  literature,  such  as 
those  of  the  Colonial  period,  were  not  literature  in 
the  strict  meaning  of  that  term.  In  the  strenuous 
times  of  our  early  history  the  settlers  were  so  busily 
occupied  with  the  stupendous  undertaking  of  de- 
veloping their  new  country — clearing  the  primeval 
forests,  cultivating  the  virgin  soil  and  incidentally 
decimating  the  aborigines — that  they  found  no 
leisure  for  the  pursuit  of  letters.  Whatever  time 
the  pioneer  colonists  had  left  over  from  these  ab- 
sorbing activities,  the  Puritans  among  them  devoted 
to  the  study  of  the  Bible  and  the  cavaliers  among 
them  devoted  to  outdoor  sports  and  social  pleasures. 
Small  wonder  therefore  that  the  few  specimens  of 
literature  produced  in  the  Colonial  period  of  Ameri- 
can history  furnish  but  meager  claim  to  be  admitted 
to  the  dignity  and  rank  of  literature.  Even  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  admiring  student  of  Ameri- 
can letters  is  embarrassed,  not  to  say  bored,  by  our 
Colonial  literary  productions;  they  are  so  insuf- 
ferably tedious,  insipid  and  inane — utterly  desti- 
tute of  life  and  interest. 

The  works  of  such  writers  as  Captain  John  Smith 
and  William  Bradford  make  a  dismal  exhibit  by 
the  side  of  the  brilliant  productions  of  that  galaxy 
of  contemporary  British  authors  who  constitute 
the  golden  age  of  English  literature.  No  American 
writer  of  our  Colonial  period  deserves  to  be  men- 
tioned in  the  same  breath  with  such  English  au- 


18  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


thors  as  Dryden,  Congreve,  Milton,  Addison,  Steele, 
Swift,  Pope,  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  to  name  only 
a  few  of  those  whose  classic  productions  adorn  the 
annals  of  English  letters  during  that  same  period. 
Over  against  these  English  luminaries  we  can  set 
only  such  feeble  and  sickly  Colonial  lights  as  Cap- 
tain John  Smith,  William  Bradford,  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards and  the  Mathers,  who  are  in  total  eclipse  by 
comparison.  It  ought  to  be  said,  however,  that 
this  comparison  is  intended  not  as  a  reproach  ( that 
would  be  as  stupid  as  it  is  unpatriotic),  but  only 
as  an  indication  how  ill-adapted  and  utterly  un- 
suited  to  the  development  of  literature  was  the 
American  environ  in  those  early  days  of  our  history. 
Indeed,  it  is  all  the  more  creditable  to  American 
letters  and  a  source  of  justifiable  pride  that  our 
literature,  within  the  brief  space  of  a  century,  has 
grown  and  developed  from  this  insignificant  and 
unpromising  beginning  to  its  present  established 
place  of  distinction  and  prestige  among  the  litera- 
tures of  the  world. 

In  our  early  Colonial  period  there  were  two  well- 
marked  and  distinct  foci  of  literary  activity,  viz: 
Virginia  and  Massachusetts.  As  early  as  1624, 
Captain  John  Smith  published  his  "History  of  Vir- 
ginia." A  rover  and  adventurer,  who  relied  more 
upon  his  sword  than  upon  his  pen  to  win  him  fame, 
Smith,  after  a  two  years'  residence  on  American 
soil,  quit  Virginia,  in  1609,  and  returned  to  the  Old 
World,  where  his  eventful  and  checkered  career  was 
terminated  by  his  death,  in  London,  in  1631. 
The  romantic  legend  of  his  rescue  by  Pocahontas 
and  other  thrilling  adventures  connected  with  his 
name  are  so  widely  current  that  every  schoolboy 
knows  of  this  daring  explorer,  although  few  have 
ever  read  a  line  that  he  wrote.  Critics  have  not 


THE   COLONIAL   PERIOD  19 

failed  to  question  the  authenticity  of  the  famous 
Pocahontas  legend  and  have  demonstrated  the 
falsity  of  not  a  few  of  the  author's  marvelous  asser- 
tions. Smith's  picturesque  and  vigorous  narrative, 
Avhile  possessing  only  slight  literary  merit,  is  yet  un- 
questionably on  the  borderland  of  pure  literature. 
A  singular  interest  attaches  naturally  to  it  for  the 
reason  that  it  is  the  first  American  contribution  to 
letters.  Of  his  rather  voluminous  productions  the 
"History  of  Virginia"  is  Smith's  most  widely  known 
work.  But  even  this  is  far  more  valuable  as  a  his- 
torical document  than  as  a  piece  of  literature. 

Since  the  Southern  cavalier  found  his  entertain- 
ment and  diversion  in  social  life,  not  in  letters,  few 
of  the  Virginia  colonists  therefore  continued  the 
literary  tradition  established  by  Smith.  The  Colo- 
nial annals  of  the  Old  Dominion,  the  foremost 
Southern  State,  are  not  adorned  with  any  names 
famous  even  in  American  letters.  There  is  George 
Sandys,  Virginia's  so-called  first  poet,  to  be  sure; 
but  he  was  simply  a  bird  of  passage  who  happened 
to  complete  Lis  translation  of  Ovid  during  his  brief 
sojourn  on  the  banks  of  the  noble  James.  There  is 
nothing  in  him  that  is  Southern,  in  fact  nothing 
that  smacks  of  American  soil,  for  the  matter  of 
that.  Besides,  the  mere  accident  of  the  completion 
of  a  piece  of  literature  in  America  could  not  surely 
establish  the  claim  of  a  foreign  writer  to  be  classed 
as  an  American  author.  Those  most  interested  in 
maintaining  the  traditions  of  letters  in  our  Colonial 
period  were  college  professors  and  clergymen. 
Stith,  the  third  president  of  William  and  Mary 
College,  then  recognized  as  the  fountain  of  intellec- 
tual life  in  Virginia,  wrote  an  interesting  and  much 
prized  history  of  the  colony.  Stith  perhaps  had 
implicit  confidence  in  Captain  Smith  as  a  veracious 


20  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

chronicler  of  the  early  history  of  the  Old  Dominion 
and  therefore  did  not  deem  it  worth  while  to  investi- 
gate for  himself  and  verify  Smith's  statements  in 
every  instance.  But  the  book  is  far  from  being  a 
reprint  of  Smith's  "History  of  Virginia" ;  and  Stith 
incorporated  into  his  volume  much  fresh  and  accu- 
rate information  gathered  from  various  sources, 
making  it  the  most  important  work  of  its  kind  pro- 
duced in  Virginia  before  the  Revolution.  After 
Stith  comes  Colonel  Byrd,  the  founder  of  Rich- 
mond, whose  "History  of  the  Dividing  Line" 
between  Virginia  and  North  Carolina,  far  from 
being  a  dry-as-dust  tome,  is  enlivened  with  imagin- 
ative touches  here  and  there  and  possesses  some  real 
literary  merit. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  Southern  writers  of 
our  Colonial  literature  had  a  decided  bias  for  his- 
tory and  descriptive  narrative.  But  not  so  their 
New  England  contemporaries.  These  latter  drew 
their  inspiration  from  religious  themes.  Theology 
is  the  dominant  note  in  their  literary  productions, 
prose  and  verse.  Moreover,  in  New  England  the 
transplanted  flower  of  literature  appears  to  have 
taken  firm  root  from  the  very  first  and  to  have 
flourished  more  vigorously  there  than  in  the  South. 
Hence  the  long  muster  of  such  New  England  writ- 
ers as  Bradford,  Eliot,  Wiuslow,  Winthrop,  Mor- 
ton, Hooker,  Roger  Williams,  Anne  Bradstreet, 
Wigglesworth,  Ward,  Sewell,  Prince,  the  Mathers, 
and  Jonathan  Edwards. 

This  formidable  array  of  our  early  men  of  letters 
represented  but  little  genuine  literature.  The  poets 
of  the  number  arc  Anne  P.radx!  red  ami  Michel 
\Vigglesworth;  but  their  verses  have  long  aijo  fallen 
into  a  well-merited  oblivion.  Mrs.  Kradst  reet  was 
acclaimed  the  Tenth  Muse  by  the  uncritical  colon- 


THE    COLONIAL    I'KUIOD  21 

ists  and  enjoys  the  distinction  of  being  Hie  first 
woman  in  America  to  join  the  craft  of  authors.  It 
would  be  ungallant,  though  true,  to  say  of  her  pon- 
derous poems  that  they  richly  deserve  the  fate  which 
hns  overtaken  them — being  a  striking  illustration 
of  the  dreary  stuff  which  passed  for  poetry  with  our 
undixrHmiuatmg  early  colonists.  Mrs.  Brad- 
street's  "The  Four  Elements77  and  "The  Four  Mon- 
archies77 had  their  reward  in  their  author's  day. 
The  Reverend  Michel  Wigglesworth7s  "Doomsday," 
however,  even  despite  its  gloomy  and  forbidding 
Calvinistic  meditations,  enjoyed  a  greater  popu- 
larity than  Mrs.  Bradstreet7s  poetic  reflections.  But 
judged  by  present-day  tastes  Wiggles  worth's  effu- 
sions are  little  removed  from  mere  theological  dog- 
gerel and  are  without  a  ray  of  light  to  illuminate 
their  gloom  and  dreariness.  His  verses  are  now 
interesting  chiefly  as  a  specimen  of  the  so-called 
poetry  of  New  England  during  the  days  of  Milton 
and  Dryden.  To  accept  such  drivel  as  poetry  surely 
bespeaks  a  woeful  lack  of  discrimination  and  taste 
on  the  part  of  our  early  critics,  and  is  a  gross  reflec- 
tion upon  the  judgment  of  our  early  men  of  letters. 
The  work  of  the  prose  writers  is  of  a  somewhat 
higher  order  of  merit.  The  chief  source  of  inspira- 
tion of  most  of  the  prose  is  religious  interest,  and 
the  bulk  of  the  work  is  sermons.  Eliot,  the  apostle 
to  the  Indians,  wrote  a  translation  of  the  Bible  for 
the  use  of  the  aborigines;  and  Hooker  published  a 
collection  of  his  sermons  for  the  edification  of  his 
readers.  Winthrop7s  "History  of  New  England17 
possesses  a  certain  interest  for  the  historian,  of 
course,  while  his  "Letters'7  are  valuable  as  being 
the  first  collection  of  epistolary  literature  produced 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Cotton  Mather's  vo- 
luminous "Mnynulid  ('liristi  Americana"  stands  as 


22  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

a  monument  to  its  author's  unflagging  industry  an< 
pedantic  learning,  rather  than  as  a  signal  literary 
achievement.  Mather's  lack  of  accuracy  and  logi- 
cal treatment  and  his  prolixity  withal  contrast 
sharply  with  the  noteworthy  love  of  accuracy,  or- 
derly arrangement  and  succinctness  which  are  so 
strikingly  apparent  in  the  diaries  of  Bradford, 
Sewell  and  Winthrop. 

The  limits  of  space  preclude  a  detailed  considera- 
tion of  this  group  of  New  England  writers.  I>ut 
simple  justice  demands  that  a  few  words  be  devoted 
to  Jonathan  Edwards,  that  eminent  divine  whose 
religious  utterances  impressed  themselves  so  forci- 
bly upon  the  heart  and  conscience  of  his  Puritan 
contemporaries.  For  Jonathan  Edwards  and  Cot- 
ton Mather  were  far  in  advance  of  all  the  pre-revo- 
lutionary  writers  in  the  field  of  philosophy  and  the- 
ology; and  of  these  Edwards  is  generally  conceded 
to  have  been  the  greater  in  point  of  intellectual 
grasp  and  actual  achievement.  Edwards's  impor- 
tant contribution  to  our  Colonial  literature  was  his 
famous  treatise  on  the  "Freedom  of  the  Will,"  writ- 
ten during  his  presidency  of  Princeton  College. 
Upon  this  erudite  Calvinistic  exposition  of  the  1'ree- 
dom  of  the  will  the  learned  author  lavished  his 
ripest  thought.  Edwards  also  wrote  a  memorable 
ordination  sermon  on  the  punishment  of  the  wicked, 
which  exerted  an  abiding  influence  on  theological 
inquiry  and  discussion  in  New  England  during  the 
nineteenth  century.  As  the  foremost  exponent  of 
Calvinism  in  (he  North  Edwards  was  succeeded,  in 
turn,  by  Hopkins,  Emmons  and  Dwight.  Of  these 
Dwight  was  by  far  the  most  brilliant.  He  is  favor- 
ably known  to  the  student  of  our  early  literature  as 
the  author  of  an  epic  poem  "The  Tongue 


THE   COLONIAL  PERIOD  23 

Canaan,"  five  volumes  of  sermons,  and  some  de- 
scriptive writing  oil  travels. 

As  the  relations  of  the  Colonies  to  the  mother 
country  became  more  and  more  strained,  it  was  but 
natural  that  the  stirring  events  of  (lie  Revolution 
should  have  called  forth  much  political  writing,  and 
that  the  popular  interest  in  philosophical  and  theo- 
logical discussion  should  have  consequently  waned. 
The  flood  of  political  tracts  and  pamphlets  therefore 
which  issued  from  the  press  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  soon  engrossed  public  attention, 
dominating  the  thought  and  literary  activity  of 
the  entire  country.  Those  strenuous  times  dictated 
simple  and  practical  methods  of  appeal  to  the 
people.  Consequently  those  who  felt  the  impulse  to 
write  paid  but  little  attention  to  the  art  of  expres- 
sion or  literary  finish,  their  supreme  aim  being  the 
practical  effect.  There  are  some  famous  names 
adorning  the  pages  of  American  history  during  this 
period,  but  they  are  principally  the  names  of  our 
Revolutionary  worthies,  such  as  warriors  and  ora- 
tors. Thomas  Jefferson,  the  man  of  ideas  and  the 
author  of  our  immortal  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence, Patrick  Henry,  the  silver-tongued  orator  of 
Virginia,  and  Samuel  Adams  and  Otis  of  Massachu- 
setts no  less  distinguished  for  their  burning 
eloquence  and  patriotism, — these  illustrious  wor- 
thies, however  great  their  services  in  the  founding 
of  our  nation  and  in  the  making  of  history,  really 
contributed  very  little  of  permanent  interest  to  Am- 
erican letters.  They  were  men  who  accomplished 
great  achievements  in  the  field  of  human  activity; 
but  they  were  not  men  of  letters.  The  chief  claim  of 
Hamilton  and  likewise  of  Madison  to  mention  here 
is  their  authorship  of  the  Federalist  papers,  to  be 
sure,  an  excellent  production  of  its  kind,  but  hardly 


24  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

deserving  to  rank  high  as  literature.  Thomas  Paine 
exhibited  a  forceful  style  and  rendered  a  good  serv- 
ice to  his  countrymen  by  his  vigorous  pamphlets  on 
"Common  Sense"  and  "The  Crisis."  His  "Age  of 
Reason,"  however,  is  a  rather  shallow  book  which 
created  far  more  consternation  among  believers  of 
his  day  than  its  merits  warranted. 

The  figures  that  stand  out  most  prominently  in 
the  dawn  of  our  literary  history  are  John  Wool- 
man,  Joel  Barlow  and  Philip  Freneau.  Woolman's 
"Journal"  possesses  some  real  literary  merit  and 
elicited  from  Charles  Lamb  the  eulogistic  comment 
( in  a  letter  to  a  friend )  :  "Get  the  writings  of  John 
Woolman  by  heart."  Whittier  thought  so  favora- 
bly of  Woolman's  beautiful  diary  as  to  edit  it,  in 
1871,  and  confessed  himself  greatly  moved  by  the 
serene  and  lovely  spirit  of  its  author.  Barlow  is 
worthy  of  special  mention  because  of  his  well- 
meant,  though  somewhat  abortive  attempt  at  pure 
literature.  His  prolix  epic  "The  Columbiad,"  has 
been  quite  accurately  described  by  Professor  Rich- 
ardson as  "the  most  stupendous  and  unmitigated 
failure  in  the  annals  of  literature."  On  the  con- 
trary, Barlow's  mock-heroic,  entitled  "Hasty  Pud- 
ding," offers  something  to  the  reader  to  repay  a 
perusal  of  its  pages.  It  displays  a  lively  humor  and 
some  imaginative  touches  here  and  there  in  the  pic- 
turesque descriptions  of  its  rural  scenes. 

Freneau  is  easily  first  of  this  trio  of  Revolution- 
ary writers  and,  in  fact,  is  the  only  poet  worthy  of 
consideration  in  our  Colonial  period.  This  New 
Jersey  bard  had  a  checkered  career  as  patriot, 
printer,  and  editor  during  those  troublous  times  of 
political  struggle.  Vet  lie  produced  more  verse, 
good,  bad  and  indifferent,  than  any  contemporary 
singer,  and  deservedly  won  his  distinguishing  title, 


TIIK    COLONIAL    I'KUIOD  25 

"Poet  of  the  Revolution."  It  is  true  thai  his  facil- 
ity led  him  to  publish  much  thai  ought  to  have  been 
suppressed, — inert1  doggerel  rhymes — simply  be- 
cause, ha yiu-  cau.uhf  (he  ear  of  the  public,  he  felt 
thai  he  must  force  his  jaded  muse,  to  retain  his  hold 
upon  popular  favor.  He  used  to  dash  off  his  verses 
with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  he  gave  proof  of  his 
versatility  by  writing  upon  a  variety  of  themes  of 
passing  interest  and  in  a  varying  humor.  He  wrote 
not  only  political,  satirical  and  humorous  produc- 
tions, but  he  also  wrote  descriptive  poems  of  some 
worth,  and  even  essayed  society  verse  with  a  con- 
siderable measure  of  success. 

Some  of  Freneau's  lyrics  are  very  good  of  their 
kind  and  offer  unmistakable  indication  of  the  gen- 
uine poetic  gift.  The  best  of  them  are  marked  by 
originality,  imagination,  and  real  poetic  feeling, 
and  stand  out  clear  and  distinct  amid  the  inane  life- 
less imitations,  the  jingling  rhymes  of  our  Colonial 
versifiers.  His  little  song  "The  Wild  Honey-suckle" 
breathes  the  true  woodland  note  and  is  redolent  of 
the  breath  of  spring  flowers.  We  venture  to  quote 
it  in  full : 

"Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet ; 

No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 

No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

"By  nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by ; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 


26  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay, 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom ; 
Unpitying  frosts,  and  autumn's  power, 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

"From  morning's  suns  and  evening's  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came ; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die,  you  are  the  same ; 

The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 

The  short  duration  of  a  flower." 

Freneau's  masterpiece  was  "The  House  of  Night," 
a  more  pretentious  poem  and  bolder  in  conception, 
though  not  happier  in  execution,  than  his  "Wild 
Honey-suckle. "  It  contains  some  palpable  blem- 
ishes of  versification  as  well  as  of  expression,  but 
it  is  decidedly  original  and  is  the  best  thing  done 
in  verse  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  during  the 
eighteenth  century.  Sombre  and  bizarre  in  con- 
ception and  weird  in  effect,  the  poem,  in  spirit  at 
least,  is  not  unlike  the  genius  which  inspired  Poe's 
poetry.  But  it  is  a  far  call  from  Freneau  to  Poe. 

Passing  over  Benjamin  Franklin,  whom  we  shall 
discuss  in  a  separate  chapter,  we  would  call  atten- 
tion next  to  Charles  Brockden  Brown.  Brown  was 
a  writer  of  such  promise  as  to  make  the  critic  feel 
that  he  would  surely  have  achieved  some  rare  litep- 
nry  distinction,  had  not  death  claimed  him  before  he 
reached  the  meridian  of  life.  In  IJrown's  tales  the 
American  school  of  fiction  st niggled  to  find  its  first 
expression  as  a  new  and  distinct  form  of  creative 
literature.  True,  Brown  did  not  succeed  entirely 
In  freeing  himself  from  the  lOr.ijlisli  traditions  of 
fiction,  and  his  work  is  imperfect  and,  for  the  most 


Till]    COLONIAL    I'KUIOD  27 

part,  violates  all  the  canons  of  literary  art  and  good 
taste.  Yet  he  deserves  no  little  credit  for  his  effort 
as  a  pioneer  writer  to  break  with  the  time-honored 
traditions  which  bound  authors  of  his  class  and  In 
portray  in  his  novels  distinctly  American  scenes 
and  characters.  In  portraying,  in  his  stories,  Amer- 
ican men  and  women,  Brown  made  a  noteAVorthy 
departure ;  and  his  example  commended  itself  to  the 
judgment  and  taste  of  his  immediate  successor, 
Cooper,  who  found  in  the  American  Indian  a  fit 
theme  to  engage  his  creative  fancy  and  prolific  pen. 

Brown's  genius  is  decidedly  sombre.  Critics  have 
not  failed  to  point  him  out  as  the  precursor  of  that 
acknowledged  American  master  in  the  domain  of 
the  grotesque  and  weird,  to  wit,  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 
The  two  authors  certainly  have  much  in  common, 
though  Poe  was  infinitely  more  richly  endowed 
with  imagination  and  far  surpassed  Brown  in  the 
art  of  literary  expression.  Brown's  "Wieland"  is 
his  best  romance  and,  though  far  removed  from 
such  a  harrowing,  thrilling  detective  story  as  "The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  it  still  gives  evidence 
of  a  vivid  and  vigorous  imagination  and  compares 
not  unfavorably  with  the  English  fiction  of  its 
period.  Aside  from  the  promising  quality  of  his 
work  Brown  is  interesting  as  being  the  earliest 
example  of  an  American  who  endeavored  to  eke  out 
a  livelihood  solely  by  the  support  of  his  pen.  He 
was  the  first  professional  man  of  letters  in  America, 
and  truly  his  lot  was  a  hard  one ;  and  as  an  author 
he  saw  few  halcyon  days  in  his  all-too-brief  years. 

Yet  Brown's  pathetic  example  did  not  result  in 
an  abatement  of  interest  in  letters,  on  the  part  of 
young  writers  aspiring  to  literary  fame.  On  the 
contrary,  his  self-sacrificing  spirit  inspired  young 
Americans  with  literary  aspiration  to  do  and  dare 


28  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


likewise.  Brown's  age  was,  so  to  say,  the  chill, 
gray  dawn  of  our  national  literature,  and  our  early 
professional  men  of  letters  had  more  of  light, 
warmth  and  comfort  to  look  forward  to  as  time 
wore  on.  For  already  by  the  hopeful  products  of 
their  pen  Washington  Irving  and  James  Fenimore 
Cooper  were  beginning  to  give  no  uncertain  indica- 
tion that  the  spirit  of  literature  had  not  perished 
utterly  from  our  western  shores  with  the  untimely 
death  of  Brown.  Nay,  in  Philadelphia,  Brown's 
own  city,  there  lived  and  wrought  a  contemporary, 
a  man  of  varied  activity,  whose  reputation  as 
editor,  diplomat,  scientist  and  author  was  perma- 
nently established  in  the  early  history  of  our  nation 
and  whose  fame  as  an  author  especially  entitles 
him  to  the  distinction  of  first  place,  in  point  of  time, 
among  the  makers  of  American  literature.  This 
versatile  and  talented  man  was  Benjamin  Franklin, 
whose  literary  accomplishments  and  importance  as 
an  American  man  of  letters  are  outlined  in  the  fol- 
lowing chapter. 


CHAPTER  II 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Benjamin  Franklin  is  among  the  most  conspicu- 
ous figures  in  the  early  history  of  American  letters. 
Indeed,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term,  there  was  no 
American  man  of  letters  at  the  time  when  Franklin 
flourished.  The  man  wlio  made  the  closest  approach 
to  this  literary  distinction  was  the  famous  divine, 
Cotton  .Mather;  and  surely  he  is  not  properly  enti- 
tled to  be  called  a  man  of  letters.  This  fact  that 
there  were  no  American  men  of  letters  at  the  time 
Franklin  lived  but  emphasizes  the  remoteness  of 
our  Colonial  history  from  the  present.  At  the  time 
of  Franklin's  birth  in  Boston  (17th  January,  1706), 
the  American  colonies  were  under  the  rule  of  Queen 
Anne.  At  the  time  of  Franklin's  birth  there  was 
but  one  newspaper  in  America,  and  there  was  not 
a  printing  press  south  of  Philadelphia. 

Yet  despite  these  unfavorable  conditions  Frank- 
lin early  showed  his  literary  bent.  Franklin's 
father  took  young  Benjamin  from  school  at  the 
tender  age  of  ten  and  put  him  in  his  chandler's  shop, 
intending  ultimately  to  fit  him  for  the  ministry.  In 
his  father's  shop  the  boy  gave  unmistakable  evi- 
dence of  his  love  of  letters  by  eagerly  devouring 
the  few  books  in  his  father's  meager  library.  Only 
a  love  of  literature  amounting  to  a  passion  could 
induce  a  mere  lad  to  read  and  re-read  such  dreary, 
dry-as-dust  theological  pamphlets  as  were  found 
upon  the  shelves  of  Josiah  Franklin's  musty  library. 
Of  the  entire  collection  only  one  book — "Plutarch's 
Lives" — would  possess  any  interest  for  the  average 
boy.  But  young  Benjamin  was  far  from  being  an 
average  boy.  For  what  average  boy  would  save  up 
his  few  pennies,  as  Franklin  did,  in  order  to  buy 


30  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


Bunyan's  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  when  he  had 
read  and  re-read  it,  sell  it,  and  with  the  proceeds 
supplemented  by  his  scant  savings,  purchase  a  copy 
of  Burton's  "Historical  Collections?"  Though  his 
father  little  realized  it,  young  Franklin  was  rapidly 
developing  a  taste  for  a  more  profitable  employment 
than  that  of  molding  candles  or  grinding  knives. 
When  Franklin  was  twelve,  he  was  apprenticed 
to  his  older  brother,  who  was  a  printer.  This  ap- 
prenticeship, no  doubt,  had  decided  weight  in  deter- 
mining Franklin's  subsequent  career.  It  was  while 
setting  type  in  his  brother  James's  office  for  the 
Boston  (tuzctte,  the  second  newspaper  published  in 
America,  that  young  Benjamin  began  to  write,  pro- 
ducing two  ballads  in  doggerel  verse.  At  that  time 
the  street  ballad  was  the  main  source  of  popu- 
lar information.  Franklin,  having  written  up 
a  recent  occurrence  in  this  form,  at  his  brother's 
suggestion  hawked  his  ballads  through  the  streets 
of  IJoston.  His  father,  however,  disliked  see- 
ing his  son  resort  to  this  device  for  selling 
his  literary  wares,  and  so  he  dissuaded  him  from 
any  farther  attempt  at  ballad  poetry  by  telling 
him  that  all  such  poets  were  beggars.  There- 
upon Benjamin  gave  up  the  manufacture  of  ballads 
and  employed  his  leisure  moments  in  voraciously 
devouring  all  the  books  that  came  within  his  reach. 
So  strong  was  his  passion  for  reading  that,  as  his 
biographer  informs  us,  he  did  not  scruple  to  per- 
suade a  book-seller's  apprentice,  who  was  his  friend, 
to  bring  him  books  home  from  the  store  furtively  at 
night.  These  Franklin  would  read,  sometimes  sit- 
ting up  all  night  in  order  to  finish  the  book  by  morn- 
ing and  have  it  returned  to  the  store  without  detec- 
tion. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN  31 

During  this  formative  period  Franklin  was 
strongly  influenced  by  whatever  he  read.  It  is  inter- 
est ing  to  observe  what  books  exerted  the  greatest 
influence  upon  him.  Under  the  influence  of  a  book 
on  vegetable  diet  which  lie  read,  he  forthwith  be- 
came a  vegetarian.  On  reading  Xenophon's  "Memor- 
abilia," he  became  a  convert  to  the  Socratic  method 
of  dispute  and  subsequently  adopted  it  in  discus- 
sion, of  which  he  was  inordinately  fond.  Influenced 
by  Shaftesbury's  and  Collin's  writings,  he  soon 
drifted  into  skepticism.  But,  beyond  and  above  all 
of  these,  the  book  which  bore  most  lasting  fruit  was 
a  volume  of  Addison,  which  Franklin  read  again 
and  again. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  remarkable  book 
was  the  third  volume  of  the  "Spectator."  This  book 
Franklin  literally  read,  marked  and  inwardly  di- 
gested. Upon  it  he  founded  his  admirable  prose 
style  which  is  a  model  of  clearness,  terseness  and 
force.  A  mere  lad,  he  was  held  spellbound  by  the 
wit,  humor  and  charm  of  the  "Spectator."  Its 
beauty  and  grace  of  style  sank  into  his  mind  and 
made  a  never-fading  impression.  All  the  leisure 
hours  at  his  disposal  he  devoted  to  this  volume.  He 
set  himself  exercises  from  it.  He  would  take  some 
number  that  especially  struck  his  fancy,  jot  down 
the  substance  in  rough  notes  and,  after  a  few  days, 
reproduce  the  thought  in  his  own  language,  imita- 
ting the  style  and  manner  of  the  original  as  closely 
as  possible.  He  would  even  turn  the  essays  into 
verse  as  an  exercise  designed  to  enlarge  his  vocabu- 
lary. Nor  did  he  neglect  the  arrangement  of  the 
thought.  He  would  separate  the  sentences,  throw7 
them  together  promiscuously,  and  then  re-arrange 
them  in  the  original  order.  In  this  manner  Frank- 
lin became  steeped  and  saturated,  so  to  say,  with 


32  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  Addisonian  style.  It  served  as  the  model  for 
that  succinct,  lucid,  nervous  and  vigorous  style 
which  Franklin  elaborated  in  his  own  writings. 

Thus  equipped,  Franklin  addressed  himself  to  his 
literary  work,  though  not  yet  out  of  his  teens.  He 
contributed  a  series  of  letters  to  the  New  England 
Courant, — a  paper  printed  by  his  brother  James. 
The  first  letter  was  called  forth  by  the  discussion  as 
to  the  virtue  of  inoculation  as  a  preventive  against 
smallpox,  which  discovery  at  that  time  divided  the 
Boston  public  into  two  hostile  camps.  Cotton 
Mather  was  an  ardent  advocate  of  inoculation.  The 
Courant  maintained  that  inoculation  was  an  inven- 
tion of  the  devil.  When  the  discussion  was  at  its 
height,  Franklin  wrote  an  article  and  modestly 
thrust  it  under  the  door  of  the  Courant  office 
at  night,  in  the  vague  hope  that  it  might  find  its  way 
into  the  columns  of  that  paper.  The  article  was 
published,  and  while  there  is  no  record  of  it  pre- 
served, it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  it  was  the 
first  of  the  famous  Silence  Dogood  letters  which 
Franklin  contributed  to  the  Courant. 

The  authorship  of  the  Dogood  letters  was  not  re- 
vealed at  the  time  of  their  publication.  They  were 
first  ascribed  to  Franklin  in  Parton's  biography. 
Franklin,  however,  claims  the  Dogood  papers  in 
some  notes  intended  for  his  "Autobiography." 
These  papers  are  a  noteworthy  production  for  a 
mere  boy.  They  reflect  the  spirit  and  style  of  the 
"Spectator"  in  a  striking  way.  They  exhibit  the 
same  playful  humor  and  grace  of  style.  The  papers 
include  a  variety  of  composition, — letters,  criti- 
cisms and  even  dreams. 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  Dogood 
papers  Franklin  left  I  Jos  ton,  setting  out  for  New 
York,  and  ultimately  made  his  way  to  Philadel- 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN  33 

phi;i.  Every  one  is  familiar  with  the  graphic  sketch 
the  author  himself  gives  in  his  "Autobiography,"  of 
his  arrival  in  the  Quaker  City,  seeking  employment, 
and  with  barely  enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  buy 
him  a  loaf  of  bread  for  breakfast.  From  Philadel- 
phia Franklin  went  on  a  fooFs  errand  to  London. 
After  sore  disappointment  in  his  mission  he  found 
work  in  London  as  a  printer.  Here  while  setting 
type  for  Wallaston's  "Religion  of  Nature  Delinea- 
ted," Franklin  was  inspired,  from  sheer  disgust 
with  the  argument  of  that  treatise,  to  write  a  refu- 
tation. The  result  was  the  trivial  pamphlet,  "A 
Dissertation  on  Liberty  and  Necessity,  Pleasure 
and  Pain."  Franklin  afterwards  repented  of  this 
stupid  effort  and  endeavored  to  suppress  the  pam- 
phlet. It  is  an  atheistic  production  and  does  not 
contribute  a  whit  to  its  author's  reputation. 

While  leading  an  immoral  life  in  the  great  British 
metropolis  Franklin  set  out  for  Philadelphia,  at 
the  instance  of  a  quondam  Bristol  merchant,  who 
engaged  him  as  a  clerk  in  his  Philadelphia  store. 
Upon  the  death  of  his  employer  he  secured  work  as 
a  printer  and  continued  at  this  trade  afterwards, 
till  he  made  his  fortune  and  retired  from  business. 
At  first  he  was  employed  by  a  printing  house ;  after- 
wards he  set  up  a  printing  house  of  his  own  in  part- 
nership with  his  old  friend  Meredith.  This  event 
marked  the  turn  of  Franklin's  fortune.  He  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  publishing  a  newspaper  in  con- 
nection with  his  printing  house.  At  that  time  there 
was  only  one  newspaper  in  America  outside  of  Bos- 
ton. This  was  the  Weekly  Mercury,  published  by 
one  Bradford,  in  Philadelphia.  Franklin's  plan  of 
establishing  a  new  sheet  leaked  out,  somehow,  and 
his  rival  Keimer  forestalled  his  move  in  issuing,  on 
December  28,  1728,  the  first  number  of  the  Univer- 


34  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

sal  Instructor  in  All  Arts  and  Sciences  and 
Pennsylvania  Gazette.  To  checkmate  this  new  ven- 
ture of  his  rival  printing  house,  Franklin  immedi- 
ately began  in  the  Mercury  a  long  series  of  essays 
under  the  pen-name  of  the  "Busybody/'  written 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Dogood  papers.  The  up- 
shot of  the  matter  was  that,  with  the  fortieth  num- 
ber of  the  Universal  Instructor  and  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Gazette,  the  paper  passed  into  Franklin's 
hands. 

The  Busybody  papers  are  of  the  nature  of  satire. 
They  reflect,  presumably,  in  an  accurate  manner  the 
character  of  the  times,  the  foibles  and  failings  of 
Busybody's  fellow-countrymen.  The  first  paper 
sets  forth  the  purpose  of  Busybody,  viz.,  to  censure 
the  growing  vices  of  the  people,  to  lecture  them  on 
politics  and  morality,  and  to  lead  them  to  an  appre- 
ciation of  good  literature  by  giving  excerpts  from 
the  best  books.  The  second  paper  is  a  diatribe 
directed  against  those  who  sin  against  good  taste  by 
indulging  in  excessive  laughter  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  or  who  are  guilty  of  any  other  folly 
equally  offensive  to  good  breeding.  The  third  paper 
elicited  a  spirited  reply  from  his  old  rival  Keimer, 
in  the  form  of  a  tract  entitled  "A  Touch  of  the 
Times."  To  this  Franklin  published  a  rejoinder 
ridiculing  Keimer.  This  was  followed  up  by  a 
paper  denouncing  impostors  and  mountebanks  and 
exposing  the  folly  of  seeking  the  buried  treasures  of 
pirates.  This  was  probably  the  last  paper  from 
Franklin's  pen  to  the  Busybody  series.  The  rest 
were  inn  inly  from  the  pen  of  Breintnal. 

It  is  evident  from  a  comparison  of  the  Busybody 
papers  with  the  "Spectator"  that  Franklin  took  his 
cue  in  these  essays  from  Addison.  To  be  sure,  it  is  a 
far  cry  from  the  Busybody  essays  to  the  "Spectator" 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN  35 

numbers,  and  the  resemblance  is  only  remote.  Still, 
it  is  significant  that  there  is  a  resemblance,  however 
remote.  In  Franklin's  essays,  as  in  the  "Specta- 
tor" papers,  there  is  no  excess  of  imagery,  and  the 
language  is  plain,  simple,  terse  and  direct.  The 
words  used  are  familiar  Anglo-Saxon  terms,  such  as 
are  readily  understood.  The  meaning  is  as  clear 
as  daylight  and  admits  of  no  ambiguity.  To  this 
simplicity  of  language  are  wedded  a  keen  wit  and 
a  racy  humor  and  a  certain  vigor  of  style,  which 
give  peculiar  force  and  cogency  to  these  Busybody 
essays. 

From  the  Busybody  papers  Franklin  next  turned 
his  attention  to  the  all-absorbing  question  of  the 
hour,  viz.,  the  currency  question.  Franklin  pre- 
sented his  views  in  a  vigorous  and  cogent  pamphlet, 
"A  Modest  Inquiry  Into  the  Nature  and  Necessity  of 
a  Paper  Currency."  Judged  by  present-day  notions 
this  pamphlet  was  false  political  economy.  Yet  it 
carried  conviction  to  Franklin's  contemporaries 
and  resulted  in  a  large  order  for  paper  money  to  be 
executed  by  his  printing  house,  which  proved  "a 
very  profitable  job  and  a  great  help,"  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  "Autobiography." 

After  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette  came  into  Frank- 
lin's hands,  the  moribund  journal  took  a  new  lease 
on  life  and  soon  developed  into  a  flourishing  semi- 
weekly.  Franklin  used  the  Gazette  as  the  medium 
for  his  reflections  and  criticisms  on  contemporary 
doings  and  happenings,  and  contributed  liberally  to 
its  columns.  Occasionally,  he  even  ventured  into 
verse,  discarding  prose  as  inadequate  to  his  pur- 
pose. The  most  notable  example  of  verse  he  con- 
tributed to  the  columns  of  his  Gazette  is  his  long 
poem,  entitled  "David's  Lamentation  Over  the 
Death  of  Saul  and  Jonathan."  This  is  a  close 


36  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

paraphrase  of  the  Scriptural  narrative  and  was 
written  about  the  time  when  Franklin,  abandoning 
his  atheistic  views,  formulated  a  liturgy  for  his  own 
use,  founded  the  Junto  and  penned  his  famous  epi- 
taph. 

In  1732  there  came  from  the  press  of  Philadelphia 
three  noteworthy  publications,  all  bearing  Frank- 
lin's imprint.  The  first  was  the  Philadelphische 
Zeitung,  the  first  German  newspaper  printed  in 
America;  the  second  was  "The  Honour  of  the 
Gout";  the  third  was  "Poor  Richard's  Almanac." 
Of  these  the  last,  being  by  far  the  most  important 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  present  study,  de- 
serves especial  mention. 

The  "Poor  Richard's  Almanac"  had  its  origin  in 
the  popular  demand  for  almanacs  in  the  American 
Colonies,  as  in  the  mother  country  at  that  time. 
This  demand  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  the  first 
piece  of  printing  done  in  the  Middle  States  and  the 
second  done  in  America  were  almanacs.  The 
American  almanac-makers  followed  the  precedent 
set  by  their  English  contemporaries,  of  including  a 
hodge-podge  of  irrelevant  matter,  in  addition  to  the 
calendar  and  allied  subjects  which  find  a  legitimate 
place  in  an  almanac.  Franklin  conformed  scrupu- 
lously to  the  traditions  of  the  philomaths  even  down 
to  the  detail  of  heaping  liberal  abuse  upon  the  work 
of  rival  almanac-makers.  He  chose  for  his  nom  de 
pi  nine  "Richard  Saunders,"  a  philomath  who,  for  a 
long  time,  was  editor  of  the  Apollo  Anglicanus. 
"Poor  Robin,"  an  English  comic  almanac  which  was 
so  indecent  as  utterly  to  shock  modern  tastes,  fur- 
nished Franklin  the  general  plan  for  his  "Poor 
Richard's  Almanac."  From  this  clue  Franklin  pro- 
duced the  first  mi  in  her  of  his  world-famous  "Poor 
Richard"  in  October,  1732.  The  venture  proved  a 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN  37 

phenomenal  success  and  the  almanac  went  like 
wildfire. 

It  is  the  prefaces  to  the  "Poor  Richard  Almanac" 
which  arrest  our  attention  especially.  The  pref- 
aces, as  they  appeared  from  year  to  year,  constitute 
an  admirable  piece  of  prose  fiction.  They  are  shot 
through  with  a  rich  vein  of  rollicking  humor  and 
with  a  vivacity  that  quickens  the  reader's  interest 
and  entertainment.  It  is  here  that  we  become  ac- 
quainted with  two  characters  of  Franklin's  creative 
imagination, — Richard  Saunders  and  his  wife 
Bridget, — whose  portrayal  is  almost  as  artistic  and 
complete  as  that  of  any  two  characters  in  the  entire 
domain  of  English  fiction  in  those  times.  The  au- 
thor shows  a  rare  acquaintance  with  human  nature 
in  his  conception  of  these  characters  and  his  execu- 
tion leaves  little  to  be  desired  in  definition  and  dis- 
tinctness of  outline.  The  broad  humor  is  perhaps 
somewhat  too  coarse  for  modern  tastes.  But  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  in  this  connection  that  the 
standards  of  literature  in  the  eighteenth  century 
are  different  from  those  of  the  twentieth.  It  is, 
therefore,  conceivable  that  Franklin's  coarse  humor, 
which  perhaps  offends  modern  tastes,  was  not  objec- 
tionable to  his  contemporaries. 

The  humor  of  "Poor  Richard,"  however,  was  not 
restricted  to  the  preface.  On  the  contrary,  it  ap- 
pears throughout  the  whole  book,  everywhere  reliev- 
ing the  monotony  of  the  prognostications,  eclipses, 
calendars,  and  so  forth.  For  instance,  on  one  page 
is  found  this  diverting  prognostication,  for  the  edi- 
fication of  sailors:  "August,  1739.  Ships  sailing 
down  the  Delaware  Bay  this  month  shall  hear  at 
ten  leagues'  distance  a  confused  rattling  noise  like 
a  swarm  of  hail  on  a  cake  of  ice.  Don't  be  fright- 
ened, good  passengers.  The  sailors  can  inform  you 


38  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


that  it  is  nothing  but  Lower  County  teeth  in  the 
ague.  In  a  southerly  wind  you  may  hear  it  in 
Philadelphia/'  Sometimes  amusement  is  afforded 
by  the  witty  turn  given  a  maxim,  as  "Never  take  a 
wife  till  you  have  a  house  (and  a  fire)  to  put 
her  in." 

Franklin,  like  other  philomaths,  adopted  the  plan 
of  inserting  in  his  almanac  pithy,  striking  sayings 
and  maxims  between  the  remarkable  days  of  the 
calendar.  In  this  manner  he  interlarded  the  cal- 
endar with  bits  of  the  condensed  wisdom  of  the  ages. 
These  maxims  he  designed  to  encourage  and  incul- 
cate principles  of  thrift,  industry  and  honesty.  He 
introduced  this  feature  as  a  means  of  dissemi- 
nating profitable  instruction  among  the  common 
people,  after  "Poor  Richard"  became  so  widely  cir- 
culated. It  may  be  worth  while  to  quote  a  few  of 
these  proverbial  sentences  as  illustrating  Franklin's 
felicity  at  phrase-coining  no  less  than  his  wisdom  in 
inculcating  principles  of  probity  and  virtue  among 
the  common  people,  many  of  whom  read  no  other 
book  than  "Poor  Richard."  "It  is  hard  for  an  empty 
sack  to  stand  upright."  "Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy 
shop  will  keep  thee."  "Fools  make  feasts  and  wise 
men  eat  them."  "The  rotten  apple  spoils  his  com- 
panion." "If  you  would  have  your  business  done, 
go;  if  not,  send."  "God  heals  and  the  doctor  takes 
the  fee."  "Necessity  never  made  a  good  bargain/' 
"Marry  your  sons  when  you  will,  your  daughters 
when  you  can."  These  pithy  sentences,  however, 
were  not  all  the  product  of  Franklin's  own  inven- 
tion. Many  of  them  he  borrowed  from  other  alma- 
nac-makers. But  when  he  borrowed  a  trite 
proverb,  he  recast  it  in  his  own  imagination  and 
sent  it  forth  with  a  fresh  stamp  upon  it  from  the  die 
of  his  own  invention.  Such  maxims  afterwards 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN  39 

passed  as  new  coins  and  formed  not  the  least  ele- 
ment in  the  success  of  "Poor  Richard." 

Moreover,  "Poor  Richard"  contains  some  of  the 
best  short  pieces  of  Franklin's  writings.  Here  may 
be  mentioned  "Father  Abraham's  Address,"  a  mas- 
terpiece of  its  kind.  This  is  a  homily  which  "Poor 
Richard"  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  sensible  old  man, 
familiarly  known  as  Father.  Abraham,  and  purport- 
ing to  be  delivered  at  an  auction  toward  the  close 
of  the  French  and  Indian  War,  when  the  outlook 
for  the  future  was  exceedingly  gloomy  during  those 
memorable  lean  years.  The  effect  of  this  brief  paper 
on  the  sale  of  the  Almanac  was  magnetic.  It  at- 
tracted hosts  of  readers  to  "Poor  Richard."  The 
popular  demand  for  the  Almanac  was  so  great  in 
consequence  of  "Father  Abraham's  Address"  that, 
when  the  increased  issue  was  exhausted,  the  news- 
papers published  the  "Address"  again  and  again  to 
satisfy  the  clamor.  Franklin  himself  published  it 
as  a  broadside.  His  nephew,  of  Boston,  printed  it 
in  pamphlet  form  and  sent  it  broadcast  through  the 
land.  It  crossed  the  Atlantic  and  was  widely  circu- 
lated in  Europe  under  the  caption,  "The  Way  to 
Wealth."  It  has  been  translated  into  all  the  lan- 
guages of  the  Continent,  and  been  twenty-seven 
times  reprinted  as  a  pamphlet  in  England,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  numerous  times  it  has  been  issued  as 
a  broadside  in  that  country.  Under  the  title  "La 
Science  du  Bonhomme  Richard"  it  has  been  printed 
at  least  thirty  times  in  France.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the 
most  popular  piece  of  literature  produced  in  the 
American  colonies,  if  translation  into  foreign 
tongues  is  any  test  of  popularity. 

At  the  approach  of  the  American  Revolution 
Franklin  was  sent  to  England  as  a  special  repre- 
sentative of  the  province  of  Pennsylvania  and  sub- 


40  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

sequently  resided  abroad  most  of  the  time.  He  was 
now  deeply  interested  in  politics  and  scientific  re- 
search. He  had  little  time  left  for  mere  literature. 
In  fact,  he  never  cared  at  any  time  of  his  life  for 
literary  fame,  and  was  so  indifferent  to  it  as  never 
to  sign  his  name  to  anything  he  published.  Amid 
his  manifold  duties  as  a  diplomat  he  found  time  to 
write  pamphlets  on  the  burning  questions  of  the 
day.  His  undaunted  courage  in  those  dark  days 
of  the  Eevolution  inspired  the  drooping  spirits  of 
the  struggling  colonists,  and  led  them  on  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue.  While  abroad,  besides  his  activities 
in  politics,  diplomacy  and  science,  he  undertook  to 
write  a  history  of  his  own  life,  the  longest  and  most 
interesting  of  all  his  works. 

It  was  with  great  diffidence  that  Franklin  under- 
took his  "Autobiography."  The  five  opening  chap- 
ters were  written  during  a  visit  to  the  Bishop  St. 
Asaph,  at  Twyford,  in  1771.  The  manuscript  was 
then  put  aside,  and  the  author's  attention  was  next 
directed  to  political  matters  of  a  more  pressing 
nature.  When  Franklin  returned  to  America  he 
brought  the  unfinished  manuscript  home  with  him. 
Here  he  left  it,  in  care  of  his  friend  Galloway,  when 
he  went  back  to  Europe  on  his  French  mission,  in 
1776.  Galloway,  meanwhile,  turned  royalist  and 
his  estate  being  confiscated,  the  precious  manu- 
script fell  into  the  hands  of  a  Quaker  friend  and 
admirer  of  the  author,  who  made  a  careful  copy  and 
forwarded  the  original  to  Franklin,  at  Passy,  with 
the  urgent  request  that  he  continue  and  finish  so 
delightful  and  profitable  a  piece  of  work.  Still 
Franklin  was  loath  to  resume  the  "Autobiography/1 
though  glad  to  recover  the  manuscript  long  given 
up  for  lost.  He  was  busy  with  affairs  of  state  and 
his  health  was  now  poor;  and  these  reasons  induced 


r.KX.I  A.MIN     FRANKLIN  41 

him  to  postpone  the  task.  At  length,  after  being  re- 
peatedly urged  and  enlrealed  by  his  friends,  he  took 
up  the  "Autobiography"  again,  in  1788,  but  only  to 
bring  it  down  to  the  year  1757.  Here  he  left  off  a 
second  time  and  sent  a  copy  to  several  of  his  friends 
and  the  original  to  M.  le  Veillard  and  Rochefou- 
cauld-Liancourt  at  Paris.  Franklin  died  shortly 
after  this,  and  his  "Autobiography"  was  of  course 
left  unfinished.  The  manuscript  met  with  many 
strange  adventures  before  the  memoirs  were  pub- 
lished first  in  a  French  translation  by  Buisson,  in 
Paris,  in  1791.  This  version  had  little  to  commend 
it  to  public  favor.  It  was  fragmentary,  many  pas- 
sages being  omitted  or  garbled,  and  the  whole  work 
was  little  better  than  a  travesty  upon  the  genuine 
memoirs.  Then  after  long  reprehensible  delay  and 
many  vicissitudes  the  "Autobiography"  was  first 
properly  published  in  the  Bigelow  edition. 

The  "Autobiography,"  even  in  its  incomplete 
form,  is  by  far  the  most  important  contribution 
Franklin  made  to  American  literature.  Upon  it 
reposes,  in  the  main,  his  claim  to  a  conspicuous 
place  among  American  men  of  letters.  As  an  auto- 
biography it  is  a  model  and  has  proved  extremely 
popular  ever  since  its  publication.  An  idea  of  its 
popularity  may  be  formed  from  the  fact  that  in 
America  alone  the  work  has  been  republished  up- 
wards of  fifty  times.  It  is  the  general  verdict  of 
critics  that  it  is  the  best  autobiography  in  the  lan- 
guage. As  literature  it  deserves  to  rank  with 
"Robinson  Crusoe." 

Franklin  was  not  a  voluminous  author.  Yet  his 
collected  works  make  a  considerable  bulk.  Few 
writers  have  suffered  more  at  the  hands  of  their 
friends  than  has  Franklin.  The  excessive  zeal  of 
his  editors  has  led  them  to  include  too  much  of  mere 


42  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ephemera  in  his  works.  Buisson,  Price,  Temple, 
Franklin  Sparks,  Parton,  Bigelow  and  all  the  other 
editors  after  them  have  been  overzealous  to  make 
their  respective  editions  all-inclusive  and  definitive. 
The  result  is,  there  is  much  included  in  Franklin's 
collected  works  which  the  author  himself  never  en- 
tertained the  remotest  idea  of  having  attributed  to 
him.  Much  of  what  makes  up  the  bulk  of  his 
writings  is  mere  padding, — "remarks,"  "observa- 
tions," "essays,"  "notes," — which  ought,  in  justice 
to  the  author's  reputation,  to  be  eliminated.  In 
almost  all  the  editions  Franklin  is  made  to  stand 
father  to  many  a  brief  note  or  essay  which  he  would 
have  been  very  reluctant  to  acknowledge  in  print. 
Some  future  editor  would  enhance  Franklin's  fame 
as  a  writer  if  only  he  would  eliminate  everything 
that  is  of  a  trivial  and  ephemeral  nature  and  in- 
clude such  of  his  writings  as  are  of  merit  and  in- 
terest and  are  designed  to  perpetuate  his  name  as  a 
man  of  letters.  It  is  true  this  plan  would  mate- 
rially reduce  the  size  of  his  collected  works;  but  it 
would,  at  the  same  time,  greatly  enhance  their 
value.  Such  an  edition  would,  of  course,  include  the 
"Speech  of  Miss  Polly  Baker  Before  a  Court  of 
Judicature  in  New  England,"  "The  Witch  Trial  at 
Mount  Holly,"  "Advice  to  a  Young  Tradesman," 
"Father  Abraham's  Speech,"  "Remarks  Concerning 
the  Savages  of  North  America,"  "Dialogue  with  the 
Gout,"  "The  Ephemera,"  "The  Petition  of  the  Left 
Hand,"  "Martin's  Account  of  His  Consulship," 
"The  Autobiography,"  the  Prefaces  to  the  Alma- 
nacs, the  best  essays  from  tho  </V:r//r,  his  Letters 
and  the  "Parables"  and  a  few  other  selections. 

Franklin  was  the  pioneer  of  American  men  of  let- 
ters. Literary  fame,  however,  had  no  special  at- 
traction for  him.  As  already  intimated,  so  far  was 


BEN.  I A  MIX    FRANKLIN  43 

he  from  aspiring  to  literary  distinction  that  he 
made  it  an  invariable  rule  never  to  sign  his  name  to 
any  paper  written  for  publication.  He  was  too 
much  occupied  with  making  American  history  to 
surrender  himself  to  literary  work,  whether  for  his 
own  delectation  or  for  the  delectation  of  posterity. 
Even  his  "Autobiography,"  the  more  is  the  pity,  was 
left  half  finished,  as  is  well  known.  He  contented 
himself  with  essays  and  pamphlets;  and  in  this  field 
he  is  without  a  peer  in  Colonial  literature.  His 
genius  was  kindled  by  the  passion  for  American  in- 
dependence which  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  Colo- 
nists, and  into  that  cause  he  threw  himself  with  all 
the  ardor  of  his  soul.  An  Addisonian  by  literary 
training,  he  made  heavy  draughts  upon  his  wit,  his 
humor  and  his  fancy,  to  approximate  the  happy 
style  of  that  great  master  of  English  prose.  And  it 
must  be  confessed  that  in  this  he  has  succeeded  as 
perhaps  no  other  pupil  of  Addison's  school  has, 
though  his  imitators  have  been  legion. 

Franklin  really  produced  very  little  that  deserves 
to  live.  His  literary  fame  seems  out  of  proportion 
to  his  output  of  genuine  literature.  He  wrote  no 
history  that  has  not  been  forgotten;  he  wrote  no 
poetry  that  oblivion  has  not  swallowed  up  long 
since.  He  created  no  great  characters  that  have 
taken  hold  upon  the  popular  imagination.  Yet  it  is 
but  justice  to  add  that  he  did  portray  several  minor 
characters  which  have  contributed  materially  to  the 
enrichment  of  American  literature.  The  roster  in- 
cludes Alice  Addertongue,  Anthony  Afterwit,  Pa- 
tience Teacroft,  Silence  Dogood,  Titan  Pleiades, 
Miss  Polly  Parker,  Richard  Saunders  and  his  wife 
Bridget,  with  all  of  whom  students  of  our  Colonial 
literature  are  well  acquainted.  While  not  great 
characters,  to  be  sure,  these  are,  however,  all  happy 


44  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

creations  and  imply  in  their  creator  a  skill  and  an 
invention  of  no  mean  order. 

It  is  questionable  whether  Franklin  was  willing 
to  pay  the  price  of  the  creation  of  a  really  great 
character,  even  granting  that  his  genius  was  equal 
to  the  task.  The  imagination  he  may  have  had. 
But  he  lacked  certain  other  essentials,  such  as 
tenacity  of  purpose  and  unflagging  industry,  which 
hold  the  attention  upon  the  subject  in  hand,  despite 
all  interruptions  and  distractions.  Franklin,  ac- 
cording to  the  French  maxim,  had  the  defects  of  his 
qualities.  He  was  a  many-sided,  versatile  man,  a 
veritable  genius,  if  we  may  use  that  much  abused 
term.  His  interest  drew  him  alternately  into  busi- 
ness, politics,  diplomacy,  science,  education  (he 
founded  the  University  of  Pennsylvania),  journal- 
ism and  literature.  He  signed  his  name  to  four  of 
the  most  important  documents  of  his  century — the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  the  Treaty  of  Alli- 
ance, the  Treaty  of  Peace  and  the  Constitution.  His 
versatility  and  facility  induced  him  to  attempt  a 
variety  of  things.  He  lacked  the  singleness  of  pur- 
pose which  seems  a  prerequisite  of  success  in  certain 
lields  of  human  achievement.  Consequently, 
Franklin  rarely  finished  anything  requiring  undi- 
vided and  unremitting  attention.  An  essay  or  a 
pamphlet  which  could  be  dashed  off  under  the  in- 
spiration of  a  passing  excitement  or  a  fleeting 
emotion,  a  mere  bagatelle  which  did  not  require  con- 
tinued mental  concentration  and  effort, — this 
Franklin  could  do  as  cleverly  and  gracefully  as  any 
man.  But  to  bestow  long-drawn-out  effort  upon 
any  piece  of  writing  was  irksome  to  him.  There- 
fore, he  would  abandon  any  plan  of  composition 
which  demanded  constant,  unceasing  attention. 
This  is  the  reason  why  the  Dogood  papers  were 
never  completed;  this  is  the  reason  why  the  Busy- 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN  45 

body  essays  were  handed  over  to  another  hand  to  be 
finished ;  this  is  the  reason  why  "Poor  Richard"  was 
discontinued ;  this  is  also  the  reason  why  the  "Auto- 
biography" was  twice  begun  and  twice  put  aside 
and  finally  left  only  half-written.  This  same  weak- 
ness of  Franklin's  character  which,  for  want  of  a 
more  suitable  term,  we  may  describe,  in  a  negative 
way,  as  a  lack  of  singleness  of  purpose  is  shown  in 
his  habit  of  shifting  from  one  pursuit  in  life  to 
another,  and  not  sticking  to  any  one  pursuit  very 
long. 

This  characteristic  defect  seems  to  warrant  the 
inference  that  however  great  Franklin  was — and 
great  he  surely  was — he  nevertheless  does  not  de- 
serve to  rank  with  the  very  highest  type  of  minds. 
As  another  limitation  of  our  author  may  be  men- 
tioned his  small  appreciation  of  poetry,  as  attested 
by  his  dismal  paraphrases  of  certain  poetic  portions 
of  the  Scriptures.  He  lacked,  too,  to  a  marked  de- 
gree, the  spirit  of  reverence.  He  was  wanting  in 
the  highest  forms  of  grace  and  taste. 

But  these  few  defects  were  more  than  offset  by 
Franklin's  many  excellent  qualities  as  a  literary 
artist.  He  possessed  an  unfailing  sense  of  humor, 
which  permeates  and  enlivens  every  page  he  wrote. 
To  this  redeeming  virtue  he  joined  a  keen  wit  that 
gave  force  and  point  to  all  his  political  writings. 
He  had,  moreover,  the  happy  art  of  literary  phras- 
ing— of  suiting  the  word  to  the  thing,  and  express- 
ing his  thoughts  in  clear,  concise  and  pointed  lan- 
guage. He  made  himself  a  master  of  a  vigorous 
English  prose  style  which  never  failed  to  convey 
his  meaning  in  words  too  plain  and  simple  to  be 
misunderstood.  He  stands  unapproached  in  the 
pioneer  days  of  American  literature,  and  his 
achievement  in  the  domain  of  autobiography  re- 
mains unsurpassed  even  in  the  present  time. 


FKANKLIN 
SEEKING    HIS    FORTUNE    (AUTOBIOGRAPHY). 

My  inclinations  for  the  sea  were  by  this  time  worn 
out,  or  I  might  now  have  gratified  them.  But,  having 
a  trade,  and  supposing  myself  a  pretty  good  workman, 
I  offered  my  service  to  the  printer  in  the  place,  old  Mr. 
William  Bradford,  who  had  been  the  first  printer  in 
Pennsylvania,  but  removed  from  thence  upon  the  quar- 
rel of  George  Keith.  He  could  give  me  no  employment, 
having  little  to  do,  and  help  enough  already;  but  says 
he,  "My  son  at  Philadelphia  has  lately  lost  his  princi- 
pal hand,  Aquila  Rose,  by  death;  if  you  go  thither,  I 
believe  he  may  employ  you."  Philadelphia  was  a  hun- 
dred miles  further;  I  set  out,  however,  in  a  boat  for 
Amboy,  leaving  my  chest  and  things  to  follow  me 
round  by  sea. 

In  crossing  the  bay,  we  met  with  a  squall  that  tore 
our  rotten  sails  to  pieces,  prevented  our  getting  into 
the  Kill,  and  drove  us  upon  Long  Island.  In  our  way, 
a  drunken  Dutchman,  who  was  a  passenger  too,  fell 
overboard ;  when  he  was  sinking,  I  reached  through  the 
water  to  his  shock  pate,  and  drew  him  up,  so  that  we 
got  him  in  again.  His  ducking  sobered  him  a  little, 
and  he  went  to  sleep,  taking  first  out  of  his  pocket  a 
book,  which  he  desired  I  would  dry  for  him.  It  proved 
to  be  my  old  favorite  author,  Bunyan's  Pilfjrini'x  Prog- 
ress, in  Dutch,  finely  printed  on  good  paper,  with  cop- 
per cuts,  a  dress  better  than  I  had  ever  seen  it  wear  in 
its  own  language.  I  have  since  found  thai  it  has  been 
translated  into  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe,  and 
suppose  it  lias  been  more  generally  read  than  any  other 
book,  except  perhaps  the  Bible.  Honest  .John  was  the 
first  that  I  know  of  who  mixed  narration  and  dialogue; 
a  method  of  writing  very  engaging  to  the  reader,  who 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN  47 

in  the  most  interesting  parts  finds  himself,  as  it  were, 
brought  into  the  company  and  present  at  the  discourse. 
De  Foe  in  his  Crusoe,  his  Moll  Flanders,  Religious 
Courtship,  Family  Instructor,  and  other  pieces,  has 
imitated  it  with  success,  and  Richardson  has  done  the 
same  in  his  Pamela,  etc. . 

When  we  drew  near  the  Island,  we  found  it  was  at 
a  place  where  there  could  be  no  landing,  there  being  a 
great  surf  on  the  stony  beach.  So  we  dropped  anchor, 
and  swung  round  towards  the  shore.  Some  people 
came  down  to  the  water  edge  and  hallooed  to  us,  as 
we  did  to  them ;  but  the  wind  was  so  high,  and  the  surf 
so  loud,  that  we  could  not  hear  so  as  to  understand 
each  other.  There  were  canoes  on  the  shore,  and  we 
made  signs,  and  hallooed  that  they  should  fetch  us; 
but  they  either  did  not  understand  us,  or  thought  it 
impracticable,  so  they  went  away,  and  night  coming  on, 
we  had  no  remedy  but  to  wait  till  the  wind  should 
abate;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  the  boatman  and  I  con- 
cluded to  sleep,  if  we  could;  and  so  crowded  into  the 
scuttle,  with  the  Dutchman,  who  was  still  wet;  and 
the  spray  beating  over  the  head  of  our  boat,  leaked 
through  to  us,  so  that  we  were  soon  almost  as  wet  as 
he.  In  this  manner  we  lay  all  night,  with  very  little 
rest;  but  the  wind  abating  the  next  day,  we  made  a 
shift  to  reach  Amboy  before  night,  having  been  thirty 
hours  on  the  water,  without  victuals,  or  any  drink  but 
a  bottle  of  filthy  rum,  the  water  we  sailed  on  being  salt. 

In  the  evening  I  found  myself  very  feverish,  and 
went  in  to  bed;  but  having  read  somewhere  that  cold 
water  drank  plentifully  was  good  for  a  fever,  I  fol- 
lowed the  prescription,  sweat  plentifully  most  of  the 
night,  my  fever  left  me,  and  in  the  morning,  crossing 
the  ferry,  I  proceeded  on  my  journey  on  foot,  having 
fifty  miles  to  Burlington,  where  I  was  told  I  should 
find  boats  that  would  carry  me  the  rest  of  the  way  to 
Philadelphia. 

It  rained  very  hard  all  the  day;  I  was  thoroughly 
soaked,  and  by  noon  a  good  deal  tired;  so  I  stopped  at 
a  poor  inn,  where  I  stayed  all  night,  beginning  now  to 


48  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

wish  that  I  had  never  left  home.  I  cut  so  miserable 
a  figure,  too,  that  I  found,  by  the  questions  asked  me, 
I  was  suspected  to  be  some  runaway  servant,  and  in 
danger  of  being  taken  up  on  that  suspicion.  However, 
I  proceeded  the  next  day,  and  got  in  the  evening  to  an 
inn,  within  eight  or  ten  miles  of  Burlington,  kept  by 
one  Dr.  Brown.  He  entered  into  conversation  with 
me  while  I  took  some  refreshment,  and,  finding  I  had 
read  a  little,  became  very  sociable  and  friendly.  Our 
acquaintance  continued  as  long  as  he  lived.  He  had 
been,  I  imagine,  an  itinerant  doctor,  for  there  was  no 
town  in  England,  or  country  in  Europe,  of  which  he 
could  not  give  a  very  particular  account.  He  had 
some  letters,  and  was  ingenious,  but  much  of  an  un- 
believer, and  wickedly  undertook,  some  years  after,  to 
travesty  the  Bible  in  doggerel  verse,  as  Cotton  had 
done  Virgil.  By  this  means  he  set  many  of  the  facts 
in  a  very  ridiculous  light,  and  might  have  hurt  weak 
minds  if  his  work  had  been  published ;  but  it  never  was. 
At  his  house  I  lay  that  night,  and  the  next  morning 
reached  Burlington,  but  had  the  mortification  to  find 
that  the  regular  boats  were  gone  a  little  before  my 
coming,  and  no  other  expected  to  go  before  Tuesday,  this 
being  Saturday ;  wherefore  I  returned  to  an  old  woman 
in  the  town,  of  whom  I  had  bought  ginger  bread  to  eat 
on  the  water,  and  asked  her  advice.  She  invited  me  to 
lodge  at  her  house  till  a  passage  by  water  should  offer ; 
and  being  tired  with  my  foot  traveling,  I  accepted  the 
invitation.  She,  understanding  I  was  a  printer,  would 
have  had  me  stay  at  that  town  and  follow  my  business, 
being  ignorant  of  the  stock  necessary  to  begin  with. 
She  was  very  hospitable,  gave  me  a  dinner  of  ox-cheek 
with  great  goodwill,  accepting  only  of  a  pot  of  ale  in 
return ;  and  I  thought  myself  fixed  till  Tuesday  should 
come.  However,  walking  in  the  evening  by  the  side  of 
the  river,  a  boat  came  by,  which  I  found  was  going  to- 
wards Philadelphia,  with  several  people  in  her.  They 
took  me  in,  and,  as  there  was  no  wind,  we  rowed  all  the 
way;  and  about  midnight,  not  having  yet  seen  the  city, 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN  49 

some  of  the  company  were  confident  we  must  have 
passed  it,  and  would  row  no  farther;  the  others  knew 
not  where  we  were;  so  we  put  toward  the  shore,  got 
into  a  creek,  landed  near  an  old  fence,  with  the  rails 
of  which  we  made  a  fire,  the  night  being  cold,  in  Octo- 
ber, and  there  we  remained  till  daylight.  Then  one  of 
the  company  knew  the  place  to  be  Cooper's  Creek,  a  lit- 
tle above  Philadelphia,  which  we  saw  as  soon  as  we 
got  out  of  the  creek,  and  arrived  there  about  eight  or 
nine  o'clock  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  landed  at  the 
Market  Street  wharf. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  this  description 
of  my  journey,  and  shall  be  so  of  my  first  entry  into 
that  city,  that  you  may  in  your  mind  compare  such 
unlikely  beginnings  with  the  figure  I  have  since  made 
there.  I  was  in  my  working-dress,  my  best  clothes 
being  to  come  round  by  sea.  I  was-  dirty  from  my 
journey;  my  pockets  were  stuffed  out  with  shirts  and 
stockings,  and  I  knew  no  soul  nor  where  to  look  for 
lodging.  I  was  fatigued  with  traveling,  rowing,  and 
want  of  rest,  I  was  very  hungry;  and  my  whole  stock 
of  cash  consisted  of  a  Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a  shil- 
ling in  copper.  The  latter  I  gave  the  people  of  the 
boat  for  my  passage,  who  at  first  refused  it  on  account 
of  my  rowing;  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking  it.  A 
man  being  sometimes  more  generous  when  he  has  but  a 
little  money  than  when  he  has  plenty,  perhaps  through 
fear  of  being  thought  to  have  but  little. 

Then  I  walked  up  the  street,  gazing  about  till 
near  the  market-house  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I  had 
made  many  a  meal  on  bread,  and  inquiring  where  he 
got  it,  I  went  immediately  to  the  baker's  he  directed 
me  to,  in  Second  Street,  and  asked  for  biscuit,  intend- 
ing such  as  we  had  in  Boston ;  but  they,  it  seems,  were 
not  made  in  Philadelphia.  Then  I  asked  for  a  three- 
penny loaf,  and  was  told  they  had  none  such.  So  not 
considering  or  knowing  the  difference  of  money,  and 
the  greater  cheapness  nor  the  names  of  his  bread,  I 
bade  him  give  me  three-penny  worth  of  any  sort.  He 


50  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

gave  me,  accordingly,  three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was 
surprised  at  the  quantity,  but  took  it,  and  having  no 
room  in  my  pockets,  walked  off  with  a  roll  under  each 
arm,  and  eating  the  other.  Thus  I  went  up  Market 
Street  as  far  as-  Fourth  Street,  passing  by  the  door  of 
Mr.  Eead,  my  future  wife's  father;  when  she,  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made,  as  I  cer- 
tainly did,  a  most  awkward,  ridiculous  appearance. 
Then  I  turned  and  went  down  Chestnut  Street  and 
part  of  Walnut  Street,  eating  my  roll  all  the  way,  and 
coming  round,  found  myself  again  at  Market  Street 
wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in,  to  which  I  went  for  a 
draught  of  the  river  water;  and  being  filled  with  one 
of  my  rolls,  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her 
child  that  came  down  the  river  in  the  boat  with  us, 
and  were  waiting  to  go  farther. 

Thus  refreshed,  I  walked  again  up  the  street,  which 
by  this  time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who 
were  all  walking  the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and 
thereby  was  led  into  the  great  meeting  house  of  the 
Quakers  near  the  market.  I  sat  down  among  them, 
and  after  looking  round  a  while  and  hearing  nothing 
said,  being  very  drowsy  through  labor  and  want  of 
rest  the  preceding  night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  contin- 
ued so  till  the  meeting  broke  up,  when  one  was  kind 
enough  to  rouse  me.  This  was,  therefore,  the  first 
house  I  was  in  or  slept  in,  in  Philadelphia. 

Walking  down  again  toward  the  river,  and  looking 
in  the  faces  of  people,  I  met  a  young  Quaker  man, 
whose  countenance  I  liked,  and,  accosting  him,  re- 
quested he  would  tell  me  where  a  stranger  could  get 
lodging.  We  were  then  near  the  sign  of  the  Three 
Mariners.  "Here,"  says  he,  "is  one  place  that  enter- 
tains strangers,  but  it  is  no<  a  reputable  house;  if  thee 
wilt  walk  with  me,  I'll  show  thee  a  better."  He 
brought  me  to  the  Crooked  Billet  in  Water  Street. 
Here  I  got  a  dinner;  and  while  I  was  eating  it,  sev- 
eral sly  questions  were  asked  me,  as4  it  seemed  to  be 


BENJAMIN    TK.VNKLIN  51 

suspected  from  my  youth  and  appearance  that  I  might 
be  some  runaway. 

After  dinner,  my  sleepiness  returned,  and  being 
shown  to  a  bod,  I  lay  down  without  undressing,  and 
slept  till  six  in  the  evening,  was  called  to  supper,  went 
to  bed  again  very  early,  and  slept  soundly  till  next 
morning.  Then  I  made  myself  as  tidy  as  I  could,  and 
went  to  Andrew  Bradford  the  printer's.  I  found  in 
the  shop  the  old  man  his  father,  whom  I  had  seen  at 
New  York,  and  who,  traveling  on  horseback,  had  got 
to  Philadelphia  before  me.  He  introduced  me  to  his 
son,  who  received  me  civilly,  gave  me  a  breakfast,  but 
told  me  he  did  not  at  present  want  a  hand,  being  lately 
supplied  with  one;  but  there  was  another  printer  in 
town,  lately  set  up,  one  Keimer,  who,  perhaps,  might 
employ  me ;  if  not,  I  should  be  welcome  to  lodge  at  his 
house,  and  he  would  give  me  a  little  work  to  do  now 
and  then  till  fuller  business  should  offer. 

The  old  gentleman  said  he  would  go  with  me  to  the 
new  printer;  and  when  we  found  him,  "Neighbor," 
says  Bradford,  "I  have  brought  to  see  you  a  young 
man  of  your  business;  perhaps  you  may  want  such  a 
one."  He  asked  me  a  few  questions,  put  a  composing 
stick  in  my  hand  to  see  how  I  worked,  and  then  said 
he  would  employ  me  soon,  though  he  had  just  then 
nothing  for  me  to  do;  and  taking  old  Bradford,  whom 
he  had  never  seen  before,  to  be  one  of  the  town's  peo- 
ple that  had  a  good  will  for  him,  entered  into  a  con- 
versation on  his  present  undertaking  and  prospects; 
while  Bradford,  not  discovering  that  he  was  the  other 
printer's  father,  on  Keimer's  saying  he  expected  soon 
to  get  the  greatest  part  of  the  business  into  his  own 
hands,  drew  him  on  by  artful  questions,  and  starting 
little  doubts,  to  explain  all  his  views,  what  interests 
he  relied  on,  and  in  what  manner  he  intended  to  pro- 
ceed. I,  who  stood  by  and  heard  all,  saw  immedi- 
ately that  one  of  them  was  a  crafty  old  sophister,  and 
the  other  a  mere  novice.  Bradford  left  me  with  Kei- 


52 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


mer,  who  was  greatly  surprised  when  I  told  him  who 
the  old  man  was. 

Keimer's  printing-house,  I  found,  consisted  of  an 
old  shattered  press,  and  one  small,  worn-out  font  of 
English,  which  he  was  then  using  himself,  composing 
an  Elegy  on  Aquila  Rose,  before  mentioned,  an  in- 
genious young  man,  of  excellent  character,  much  re- 
spected in  the  town,  clerk  of  the  Assembly,  and  a 
pretty  poet.  Keimer  made  verses  too,  but  very  indif- 
ferently. He  could  not  be  said  to  write  them,  for  his 
manner  was  to  compose  them  in  the  types  directly  out 
of  his  head.  So  there  being  no  copy,  but  one  pair  of 
cases,  and  the  Elegy  likely  to  require  all  the  letter,  no 
one  could  help  him.  I  endeavored  to  put  his  press 
(which  he  had  not  yet  used,  and  of  which  he  under- 
stood nothing)  into  order  fit  to  be  worked  with;  and 
promising  to  come  and  print  off  his  Elegy  as  soon  as 
he  should  have  got  it  ready,  I  returned  to  Bradford's, 
who  gave  me  a  little  job  to  do  for  the  present,  and 
there  I  lodged  and  dieted.  A  few  days  after,  Keimer 
sent  for  me  to  print  off  the  Elegy.  And  now  he  had 
got  another  pair  of  cases,  and  a  pamphlet  to  reprint, 
on  which  he  set  me  to  work. 


CHAPTER  III 
WASHINGTON  IKVING 

Washington  Irving  is  properly  accorded  the  first 
place  among  the  pioneers  in  American  literature. 
Born  in  New  York  City,  in  1783,  shortly  after  the 
surrender  of  Cornwallis  to  Washington  and  being 
the  first  American  writer  to  exhibit  the  real,  vital 
spirit  of  literature,  Irving  may  not  inappropriately 
be  called  the  father  of  the  American  republic  of 
letters.  Some  few  critics,  it  is  true,  claim  this  dis- 
tinction for  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  but  mani- 
festly without  sufficient  reason.  For  the  talented 
Philadelphia  romancer  never  lived  to  fulfill  the 
promise  of  his  youth  and  is  known  chiefly  to  a  few 
scholars  and  students  of  our  early  literature, 
whereas  Irving's  name  is  almost  a  household  word 
in  America,  and  his  works  are  still  eagerly  perused 
by  the  great  English-reading  public  and  by  the 
scholars  alike.  Had  Brown  not  been  hurried  to  a 
premature  grave  by  that  dread  scourge  consump- 
tion, he  would  have  accomplished,  no  doubt,  far 
more  than  the  few  morbid  and  immature  novels  and 
miscellaneous  essays  which  he  bequeathed  as  a  leg- 
acy to  the  world,  and  would  have  left  behind  him  a 
more  enduring  name  in  the  field  of  letters.  But  in 
literature  as  in  every  other  sphere  of  human  activ- 
ity, men  must  be  judged  by  actual  achievement,  not 
by  promise.  So  Brown's  claim  to  the  honor  of 
being  the  founder  of  American  literature  may  be 
dismissed  with  the  Scotch  verdict  "not  proven." 


•' 


54  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Unlike  his  rival  Brown,  Irving  as  a  writer  was 
perfectly  healthy  and  normal,  free  from  all  objec- 
tionable idiosyncrasies.  Though  his  physical  con- 
stitution was  never  robust,  his  temperament  was 
that  of  an  optimist.  He  looked  habitually  on  the 
bright  side  of  life,  and  his  works  reflect,  in  a  re- 
markable manner,  his  sunny  disposition.  There  is 
nothing  gloomy  or  pessimistic  in  his  pages.  Unlike 
his  contemporary  Poe,  he  is  entirely  free  from  the 
morbid,  the  weird  and  the  uncanny.  Irving,  how- 
ever, did  not  posses  that  virile  creative  imagination 
which  was  Poe's  most  conspicuous  characteristic. 
Irving's  plummet  could  never  reach  the  depths  of 
horror  which  the  imaginative  genius  of  Poe  sounded 
again  and  again,  in  his  grotesque  and  weird  tales. 
Irving's  constructive  faculty  and  his  analytical 
faculty  as  well  were  unquestionably  inferior  to 
Poe's.  The  author  of  "Knickerbocker"  could  not 
have  written  such  a  gruesome,  analytical  tale,  for 
example,  as  the  "Gold  Bug/'  the  "Murders  in  the 
Rue  Morgue,"  the  "Black  Cat,"  or  such  a  weird,  su- 
pernatural tale  as  the  "Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher," 
"William  Wilson,"  or  "Ligeia."  A  story  of  this 
character  was  altogether  out  of  keeping  with  Irv- 
ing's  taste  and  feelings,  even  if  it  was  not  beyond 
the  range  of  his  imagination  to  conceive.  On  the 
other  hand,  Poe,  chiefly  because  of  his  undeveloped 
sense  of  humor,  could  never  have  produced  such  a 
delightful,  pathetic  and  humorous  tale  as  the  inim- 
itable "Rip  Van  Winkle."  Nor  would  the  author 
of  "The  Raven"  have  been  content  to  treat  the 
legends  of  the  Hudson  in  the  simple,  whimsical, 
humorous  and  charming  manner  of  Irving,  without 
recourse  to  the  grotesque  and  supernatural.  But  it 
is  not  our  purpose  here  to  make  a  comparative 
study  of  Poe  and  Irving. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  55 

Irving's  early  career  contained  but  slight  promise 
of  his  subsequent  success  as  a  man  of  letters.  He 
at  first  intended  to  enter  the  profession  of  law,  and 
was,  in  fact,  admitted  to  ttye  bar;  but  law  was  not 
congenial  to  his  taste.  While  in  a  law  office,  he  be- 
gan to  show  some  indication  of  his  literary  bent  by 
writing  squibs  for  the  Morning  Chronicle,  under  the 
pen-name  of  "Jonathan  Oldstyle."  But  his  failing 
health  soon  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  sedentary 
life  in  a  law  office,  and  he  spent  two  years  in  foreign 
travel.  Upon  his  return  to  New  York  he  under- 
took, in  co-operation  with  his  friend  James  K. 
Paulding,  the  publication  of  a  semi-monthly  jour- 
nal Salmaf/iDuJL  To  this  periodical  Irving  con- 
tributed a  number  of  breezy,  humorous  papers,  in 
the  Addisonian  style,  on  the  foibles  and  fads  of 
society.  This  vivacious  and  entertaining  magazine, 
which  was  designed,  as  the  editors  expressed  it, 
"simply  to  instruct  the  young,  reform  the  old,  cor- 
rect the  town,  and  castigate  the  age,"  proved  to  be  a 
short-lived  venture  and  was  abruptly  suspended 
after  the  twentieth  number. 

With  the  publication  of  "Knickerbocker's  His- 
tory of  New  York,"  however,  Irving  leaped  at  once 
into  fame  and  was  hailed  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic as  the  coming  American  author.  This  bold 
venture  proved  an  immediate  success,  and  paved 
the  way  for  a  cordial  reception  by  the  English  lit- 
erati when  Irving  visited  the  Old  World,  for  the 
second  time,  in  1815.  The  illusion  that  the  author 
of  "Knickerbocker"  created  by  his  art  and  skill  was 
so  complete  and  realistic  that  some  accepted  the 
history  at  its  face  value  as  the  bona  fide  production 
of  a  certain  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  Moreover, 
some  of  the  old  residents  of  Dutch  descent  strongly 
resented  the  bold  and  free  manner  in  which  the 


56  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

supposititious  historian  had  handled  the  revered 
and  hallowed  traditions  and  legends  of  their  sturdy 
ancestors.  But  the  pervading  good-natured  satire 
and  broad  rollicking  humor  which  brightened  the 
pages  served  to  convince  the  observant  reader  that 
the  book  was  fiction,  not  history,  and  was  evolved 
from  the  fertile  imagination  of  some  very  clever 
writer. 

"Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York"  was  a 
happy  conception  and  was  largely  indebted  for  its 
success  to  the  author's  characteristic  abundant 
sense  of  humor.  It  was  this  quality  that  redeemed 
the  burlesque  from  mere  caricature  in  execution 
and  stamped  it  an  artistic  production.  The  book 
was  written  in  the  vein  of  Swift,  but  the  satire 
lacked  the  sting  and  bite  which  the  famous  Dean  of 
St.  Patrick's  generally  infused  into  his  work. 
Irving's  satire  is  of  a  mild  type,  and  his  pervading 
humor  robs  it  of  its  sting,  causing  the  victim  to  be 
amused,  not  exasperated,  at  his  own  foibles.  The 
portraits  of  the  old  Dutch  governors  are  sketched 
with  evident  pleasure  and  ease  by  a  hand  altogether 
un trammeled  by  literary  traditions.  The  freshness 
and  buoyancy  of  the  narrative  and  the  whimsical, 
charming  style  combine  with  the  rollicking  humor 
to  make  the  book  quite  without  a  parallel  in  Eng- 
lish literature.  It  is,  however,  but  just  to  observe 
that  the  first  few  chapters  which,  by  the  way,  are 
the  product  of  the  collaboration  of  his  brother 
Peter  with  Irving,  appear  somewhat  stilted,  pomp- 
ous and  pedantic  and  make  the  unhappy  impression 
that  the  authors  were  feeling  their  way  and  were 
not  yet  sure  of  their  footing.  But  the  illusion  cast 
over  the  reader  later,  as  he  progresses,  makes  him 
forget  the  weakness  of  grip  which  the  authors  show 
in  the  opening  chapters.  After  Peter's  departure 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  57 

for  Europe,  Irving  recast  the  entire  work  (which 
w;is  designed  as  a  burlesque  on  Dr.  Samuel  Mitch- 
ell's "History  of  New  York")  and  no  doubt  greatly 
improved  the  book.  Each  of  the  old  Dutch  govern- 
ors of  New  York  is  depicted  with  such  minuteness 
of  detail  and  with  such  a  vividness  of  incident  and 
with  such  a  mock  seriousness  of  style  withal,  as 
they  were  in  turn  confronted  with  the  various  prob- 
lems of  state,  that  the  narrative  is  invested  with  an 
air  of  reality  and  might  readily  be  taken,  on  first 
blush,  as  veritable  history.  All  in  all,  the  fanciful 
idea  of  this  piece  of  historical  burlesque  and  its 
clever  execution  seem  a  stroke  of  genius,  and  the 
result  is  a  masterpiece  of  humor,  unsurpassed  in 
American  or  English  literature.  Small  wonder 
that  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  delighted  with  the  book 
and  laughed  heartily  over  it  as  he  read  it  aloud  to 
his  family.  And  the  world  has  not  yet  ceased  to 
read  it  with  interest  and  zest  and  to  find  in  it  a 
never-failing  source  of  entertainment  and  pleasure. 
Strange  to  say,  after  the  manifest  "hit"  Irving 
had  made  in  the  first  product  of  his  invention,  he 
did  not  regard  the  success  of  "Knickerbocker's  His- 
tory of  New  York"  as  marking  out  a  literary  career 
for  himself  and  pointing  his  way  to  fame  and  for- 
tune. He  looked  upon  the  venture  rather  as  a  jeu 
d'  esprit  than  as  a  serious  literary  effort  indicating 
the  bent  of  his  genius.  It  was  not  till  the  failure 
of  his  firm  in  England,  in  1818,  where  he  and  his 
brother  had  engaged  in  the  hardware  business,  that 
he  decided  to  adopt  literature  as  a  profession.  Then 
for  the  first  time  only  does  Irving  seem  to  have  re- 
flected upon  the  possibilities  that  a  literary  career 
held  out  to  him.  His  mind  once  definitely  made  up, 
he  addressed  himself  to  his  literary  pursuits  with 
an  ardent,  unswerving  devotion  and  spurned  all 


58  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

offers,  however  tempting  and  remunerative,  both  at 
home  and  abroad.  Only  in  one  or  two  instances, 
years  after,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  stranger  to 
fame  or  fortune,  did  he  deviate  from  his  set  purpose 
and  consent  to  accept  a  diplomatic  post  at  London 
and  subsequently  at  Madrid. 

At  thirty-six  Irving  settled  down  to  literary  work 
in  London,  and  the  first  product  of  his  labors  was 
the  famous  "Sketch-Book."  Though  resident  in 
the  British  metropolis,  his  heart  was  in  America,— 
on  the  historic  and  picturesque  Hudson  along  whose 
banks,  in  his  earlier  years,  he  had  so  often  roamed 
and  hunted  game,  in  quest  of  health.  Despite  the 
oft-repeated  charge  of  lack  of  patriotism,  Irving  is 
a  brilliant  illustration  of  Horace's  dictum,  Coelum, 
non  animiim,  mutant  qui  trans  mare  currunt.  The 
"Sketch-Book"  is  distinctively  American,  racy  and 
smacks  of  the  soil.  The  old  legends  of  the  Hudson 
are  here  clothed  with  life  and  beauty  and  are  now 
recognized  almost  as  a  part  of  our  national  history. 
Irving  gave  these  local  traditions  of  our  American 
Rhine  celebrity  and  currency,  and  they  have  now 
become  as  familiar  as  household  words. 

The  treatment  of  the  "Sketch-Book"  is  somewhat 
unequal.  Some  of  the  sketches  are  naturally  better 
than  others.  A  popular  vote  would  probably  put 
"Rip  Van  Winkle"  and  the  "Legend  of  Sleepy  Hol- 
low" easily  first,  and  this  verdict  would  be  confirmed 
by  critical  judgment.  While  all  are  good,  these 
two  sketches  are  felt  to  be  the  finest.  Their  tender 
pathos,  imaginative  humor,  simplicity  and  grace 
have  already  endeared  these  three  to  the  hearts  of 
thousands  of  readers  who  have  lingered,  almost 
spellbound,  over  their  pages;  and  their  charm  and 
beauty  will,  no  doubt,  commend  them  to  generations 
of  readers  yet  unborn.  Of  the  sketches  "Rip  Van 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  59 

Winkle,"  in  the  popular  estimate  (perhaps  also  in 
the  estimate  of  the  critics),  is  entitled  to  first  place. 
This,  even  more  than  the  others,  Irving  seems  to 
have  suffused  with  the  soft  hues  of  his  romantic 
fancy  and  to  have  invested'  with  unusual  glamour 
and  pathos.  Who  has  not  been  alternately  de- 
lighted and  moved  to  tears  by  Mr.  Jefferson's 
matchless  interpretation  of  this  creation,  however 
much  altered,  of  Irving's  genius? 

Irving  scored  a  signal  success  in  the  "Sketch- 
Book."  The  volume  met  with  a  reception,  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  wrhich  far  exceeded  the 
author's  most  sanguine  expectations.  Irving  him- 
self had  some  misgivings  about  the  publication  of 
the  book.  Speaking,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  of  the 
cordial  reception  given  it,  he  wrrote  in  1819 :  "The 
manner  in  wrhich  the  book  has  been  received,  and  the 
eulogiums  that  have  been  passed  upon  it  in  the 
American  papers  and  periodical  works,  have  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  me.  They  go  far,  far  beyond 
my  most  sanguine  expectations,  and  indeed  are  ex- 
pressed with  such  peculiar  warmth  and  kindness  as 
to  affect  me  in  the  tenderest  manner.  The  receipt 
of  your  letter,  and  the  reading  of  some  of  the  criti- 
cisms this  morning,  have  rendered  me  nervous  for 
the  whole  day.  I  feel  almost  appalled  by  such  suc- 
cess, and  fearful  that  it  cannot  be  real,  or  that  it  is 
not  fully  merited,  or  that  I  shall  not  act  up  to  the 
expectations  that  may  be  formed.  We  are  whim- 
sically constituted  beings.  I  had  got  out  of  conceit 
of  all  that  I  had  written,  and  considered  it  very 
questionable  stuff;  and  now  that  it  is  so  extrava- 
gantly bepraised,  I  begin  to  feel  afraid  that  I  shall 
not  do  as  well  again.  ...  I  hope  you  will  not 
attribute  all  this  sensibility  to  the  kind  reception  I 
have  met  to  an  author's  vanity.  I  am  sure  it  pro- 


60  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ceeds  from  very  different  sources.  Vanity  could  not 
bring  the  tears  to  my  eyes  as  they  have  been  brought 
by  the  kindnesses  of  my  countrymen.  I  have  felt 
cast  down,  blighted,  and  broken-spirited,  and  these 
sudden  rays  of  sunshine  agitate  me  more  than  they 
revive  me.  I  hope — I  hope  I  may  yet  do  something 
more  worthy  of  the  appreciation  lavished  on  me." 

After  a  silence  of  a  few  years  spent  in  travel  on 
the  Continent,  for  the  benefit  of  the  author's  health, 
"Bracebridge  Hall"  appeared  and  a  little  later  the 
"Tales  of  a  Traveller."  The  former  collection  of 
stories  is  good — the  best  of  them  is  the  "Stout  Gen- 
tleman,"— but  did  not  add  materially  to  Irving's 
reputation.  The  latter  book,  as  the  title  implies, 
contains  Irving's  impressions  and'  experiences  of 
his  European  travel.  The  author  himself  believed 
that  this  volume  was  one  of  his  finest  pieces  of 
work, — an  opinion  in  which  the  critics  generally 
concur.  "There  was  more  of  an  artistic  touch  about 
it,"  said  he  in  a  letter  to  Brevort,  "though  this  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  appreciated  by  the  many."  De- 
spite the  favorable  judgment  of  Irving  and  the 
critics  as  to  the  excellent  art  of  the  "Tales,"  the 
public  appears  not  to  have  appreciated  the  volume 
and  so  manifested  but  slight  enthusiasm  over  it. 
Irving  felt  this  tacit  criticism  keenly. 

The  "Tales  of  a  Traveller"  had  failed  to  measure 
up  to  the  public  expectation  chiefly  because  of  its 
lack  of  novelty.  Irving  therefore  decided  to  attempt 
a  new  and  more  ambitious  flight  in  his  next  bid  for 
the  favor  of  the  people.  Since  the  public  demanded 
something  novel  and  more  pretentious  from  his 
facile  pen,  he  responded  to  this  demand  in  a  series 
of  four  books  on  Spanish  themes, — the  "Alhambra," 
"Conquest  of  Granada,"  "Legends  of  the  Conquest 
of  Spain"  and  "The  Life  of  Columbus."  These 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  61 

volumes  wore  the  outgrowth  of  the  author's  three 
years'  residence  in  Spain.  They  were  an  entirely 
now  departure,  a  rich  virgin  vein  in  historical 
research.  The  result  was  highly  gratifying  to 
Irving,  lie  now  felt  that  he  had,  at  least  in  some 
measure,  discharged  the  debt  of  gratitude  he  had 
incurred  for  the  generous  appreciation  the  public 
had  lavished  upon  his  earlier  works.  By  his  in- 
vestigations into  a  most  romantic  chapter  of  Span- 
ish history  in  the  days  of  the  Moslem  invaders  and 
the  glorious  times  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  Irving 
brought  to  the  attention  of  his  readers  much  valu- 
able information  upon  a  subject  hitherto  neglected 
by  American  writers,  presented  in  his  character- 
istically engaging  and  graceful  style.  The  Ameri- 
can reading  public  was  thereby  placed  under  lasting 
obligations  to  him  for  opening  up  for  their  delight 
and  instruction  that  vast  domain  of  early  Spanish 
history  and  romance,  and  pointed  with  pardonable 
pride  to  the  permanent  contribution  one  of  their 
own  countrymen  had  made  to  English  literature. 
There  are  two  obvious  reasons  why  Irving  was 
happy  in  the  selection  of  his  theme.  In  the  first 
place,  he  was  himself  in  ardent  sympathy  with  this 
romantic  chapter  in  Spanish  history,  and  his  magic 
pen  was  fully  equal  to  the  laborious  and  delicate 
task  he  imposed  upon  himself  of  recreating  a  long- 
forgotten  period  when  the  spirit  of  adventure  was 
abroad  in  the  land  and  the  old  men  were  dreaming 
dreams  and  the  young  men  were  seeing  visions  of 
future  discovery  and  conquest,  with  resulting  glory 
and  renown.  Those  were  days  pregnant  with  events 
which  were  destined  to  inflame  men's  minds  with 
"enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment."  In  the 
second  place,  the  English-speaking  public  was  eager 
to  have  this  romantic  period  of  Spanish  history  ex- 


62  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

plored  by  a  writer  who  united  such  charming  liter- 
ary style  with  his  gift  of  the  spirit  of  inquiry.  By 
the  magic  of  his  pen  and  his  creative  genius  Irving 
has  succeeded  in  bringing  back  to  our  delighted 
imagination  those  far-away,  by-gone  days  and  has 
made  those  historic  characters  and  picturesque  per- 
sonages live  again.  He  has  conjured  up  before  our 
rapt  vision,  as  if  with  a  magician's  wand,  entranc- 
ing views  of  architectural  splendor  and  magnifi- 
cence and  landscapes  of  rare  and  gorgeous  beauty 
in  sunny  Spain.  Who  has  not  been  charmed  by  the 
vivid  descriptions  in  the  "Alhambra"  and  "Gra- 
nada," of  the  arid  wastes  and  melancholy  ruins 
contrasted  with  the  magnificence  and  beauty  of  city 
and  country  in  that  land  of  alternating  squalor  and 
wealth?  No  wonder  that  Coleridge's  verdict  after 
reading  the  "Conquest  of  Granada"  was  that  it  is 
"a  chef  d'oeuvre  of  its  kind." 

Of  this  Spanish  group  of  volumes,  however,  "The 
Life  of  Columbus"  is  today  regarded  as  the  most 
important  and  serious  work.  Irving  himself,  so  we 
are  informed  by  his  biographer,  Mr.  Warner, 
regarded  the  "Conquest  of  Granada"  as  the  best, 
not  only  of  his  Spanish  themes,  but  of  all  his  works. 
The  "Columbus"  as  a  biography  is  not  above  criti- 
cism. According  to  the  tastes  of  the  present  gener- 
ation, the  work  is  too  diffuse  and  elaborate  and  has, 
perhaps,  too  much  rhetorical  coloring.  Probably 
"antiquated"  is  the  word  to  describe  more  accu- 
rately its  form.  But  if  somewhat  antiquated,  com- 
pared with  more  modern  standards  of  biography, 
the  "Columbus"  yet  has  much  to  commend  it. 
Irving  bestowed  upon  it  much  pains  and  study  and 
endeavored  to  make  it  accurate  and  trustworthy. 
The  test  of  historical  accuracy  the  book  still  meets, 
in  the  main,  successfully.  It  is,  moreover,  clear, 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  63 

just  and  discriminating.  The  portrait  of  the  great 
discoverer  is  certainly  clear-cut  and  definite  enough, 
even  if  the  color  is  somewhat  more  rich  than  war- 
ranted by  the  dry  facts  of  history.  Irving  appears 
to  have  had  a  true  and  proper  conception  of  Colum- 
bus' life  and  mission  and  to  have  sympathized  with 
the  world-dreamer  in  the  keen  disappointments  that 
sorely  tried  his  abiding  buoyant  faith.  The  success 
of  his  "Columbus"  was  a  source  of  profound  grati- 
tication  to  our  author.  Before  its  publication,  as 
usual,  he  was  very  dubious  about  its  reception  by 
the  public.  In  a  letter  to  Brevort,  Irving  tells  us 
that  the  biography  had  really  cost  him  more  toil 
and  trouble  than  all  his  other  productions.  But 
he  felt  amply  repaid  for  his  pains  when,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  popularity  of  his  "Columbus"  in  his 
native  country,  an  urgent  demand  was  made  by  the 
publishers  for  an  abridgment  of  the  work. 

The  reader  of  Irving's  biography  cannot  but  be 
strongly  impressed  with  his  sensitiveness  as  to  the 
esteem  of  his  own  countrymen.  His  exceeding  sen- 
sitiveness sometimes  had  a  depressing  influence, 
though  more  frequently  it  acted'  as  a  stimulus  to  his 
genius.  It  was  his  constant  desire  to  produce  some 
work  which  would  merit  the  spontaneous  admira- 
tion of  his  countrymen.  The  slightest  adverse  criti- 
cism by  the  American  press,  as,  for  instance,  his 
alleged  Anglomania,  cut  him  to  the  quick.  "I  have 
lost  confidence,"  wrote  he  to  a  friend,  in  reference 
to  the  prospective  reception  of  his  "Columbus,"  "in 
the  favorable  disposition  of  my  countrymen,  and 
look  forward  to  cold  scrutiny  and  stern  criticism." 
Again,  in  a  letter  to  Brevort,  he  deprecates  the  loss 
of  "that  delightful  confidence  which  I  once  enjoyed 
of  not  the  good  opinion,  but  the  good  will,  of  my 
countrymen.  To  me  it  is  always  ten  times  more 
gratifying  to  be  liked  than  to  be  admired;  and  I 


64  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

confess  to  you,  though  I  am  a  little  too  proud  to  con- 
fess it  to  the  world,  the  idea  that  the  kindness  of 
my  countrymen  toward  me  was  withering  caused 
me  for  a  long  time  the  most  weary  depression  of 
spirits,  and  disheartened  me  from  making  any 
literary  exertions." 

Irving's  cordial  reception  upon  his  return  to 
America,  after  retiring  from  the  London  legation 
in  1831,  gave  him  indubitable  evidence  of  his  coun- 
trymen's high  appreciation.  The  foremost  Ameri- 
can man  of  letters  at  that  time,  Irving  was  greeted 
with  such  a  spontaneous  and  enthusiastic  acclaim 
as  to  leave  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  sentiments 
of  his  countrymen.  If,  however,  any  additional 
evidence  was  needed  to  convince  him  of  the  popular 
esteem  which  he  enjoyed  in  his  native  land,  it  came 
later  in  the  form  of  the  Madrid  mission, — an  honor 
which  was  tendered  him  quite  as  much  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  noble  service  to  American  letters  as  of 
his  manifest  fitness  for  that  important  ministry. 
The  appointment  was  hailed  with  universal  ap- 
proval; and  Irving  regarded  it  as  the  "crowning 
honor  of  his  life." 

The  product  of  Irving's  ten  years'  residence  at 
Sunnyside,  on  the  Hudson,  (he  was  on  the  shady 
side  of  fifty  when  he  settled  there),  was  "A  Tour  of 
the  Prairies,"  "Recollections  of  Abbotsford  and 
Newstead  Abbey,"  "Legends  of  the  Conquest  of 
Spain,"  "Astoria"  and  "Captain  Bonneville."  Be- 
sides these  may  be  mentioned  a  collection  of  ephem- 
eral essays  subsequently  published  under  the 
caption  of  "Wolfert's  Roost."  These  works  are  of 
a  miscellaneous  character.  The  "Recollections" 
were  made  up  of  the  author's  reminiscences  of  his 
visit  to  Scott's  home  and  to  the  historical  old  abbey 
indicated  in  the  title.  The  "Legends  of  the  Con- 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  65 

quest  of  Spain"  followed  as  an  aftermath  of  his 
famous  Spanish  themes.  "A  Tour  of  the  Prairies," 
"Astoria,"  and  "Captain  Bonueville"  are  of  the 
nature  of  travels  and  contain  the  record  of  our 
author's  experiences  during  his  explorations  in  the 
far  A  Vest.  These  books  are,  in  the  main,  graphic 
descriptions  of  the  hardy  adventurers  who  were 
thrown  together  somewhat  promiscuously  in  the 
frontier  settlements,  in  the  pioneer  days.  Irving 
has  sketched  these  odd,  picturesque  characters  of 
various  nationalities  with  such  a  clearness  of  out- 
line and  with  such  an  accuracy  of  detail  as  to  make 
them  stand  out  from  his  pages  in  bold  relief.  The 
daring  hunter  and  the  intrepid  trapper,  with  the 
other  bold  adventurers,  in  their  exciting  encounters 
with  wild  animals  and  the  treacherous  Indians 
form  a  motley,  fantastic  group  as  they  stand  sil- 
houetted against  the  dark  background  of  the  track- 
less prairies  and  pathless  forests  of  the  vast  West- 
ern frontier. 

The  duties  of  the  Spanish  mission  proved  so  exact- 
ing that  Irving  found  but  little  leisure  for  writing 
during  his  tenure  of  the  honor.  On  his  return  to 
his  beloved  Sunny  side,  however,  when  the  cares  of 
state  were  permanently  laid  aside,  he  applied  him- 
self once  more  with  unremitting  industry  to  his 
literary  pursuits.  His  laborious  "Life  of  Washing- 
ton" now  absorbed  his  attention.  The  task  proved 
irksome,  and  the  author  thrust  aside  this  under- 
taking, for  a  time,  in  order  to  write  two  other  biog- 
raphies less  exacting  and  pretentious.  These  were 
his  "Life  of  Goldsmith"  and  "Mahomet  and  his  Suc- 
cessors." His  "Life  of  Washington"  appears  to  have 
taxed  Irving's  strength  and  literary  resources.  He 
himself  informs  us  that  it  dragged  heavily,  and  we 
believe  he  is  using  no  figure  of  speech,  for  the  work 


66  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

lacks  spontaneity  and  vivacity  and  is  not  the  most 
delightful  reading.  It  is  little  better  than  a  tour  de 
force.  The  biography  must  have  been  uncongenial 
and,  for  some  reason,  seems  not  to  have  furnished 
sufficient  inspiration  to  the  writer,  especially  in  his 
declining  years  when  his  natural  vigor  was  waning. 
Perhaps  the  reason  is,  that  the  subject  was  not  far 
enough  removed  from  the  author's  own  times,  and 
was  not  therefore  surrounded  with  the  glamour  and 
atmosphere  of  romance  which  enveloped  the  person- 
ality of  Columbus  or  even  the  prosaic  life  of  Gold- 
smith. Still  there  are  some  fine  passages  in  the 
kk  Washington"  and  some  incisive  characterization, 
and  surely  the  patriotic  motive  that  inspired  the 
conception  of  the  book  was  eminently  worthy.  But 
if  Irving  had  consulted  his  reputation,  he  would  not 
have  undertaken  so  voluminous  a  work  at  his  ad- 
vanced age,  seeing  that  his  powers  were  hardly 
equal  to  the  completion  of  the  "Washington"  and 
that  his  fame  could  not  be  greatly  enhanced  thereby. 
Of  Irving's  "Mahomet  and  his  Successors"  it  is 
more  difficult  to  speak  a  favorable  word  than  of  his 
"Washington."  But  his  "Life  of  Goldsmith"  may 
be  commended  without  doing  violence  to  one's  lit- 
erary conscience.  For  this  is  by  far  the  best  of 
Irving's  later  productions  and  has  much  of  the 
charm  and  freshness  of  his  earlier  work.  The  sub- 
ject was  doubtless  congenial  to  the  biographer.  The 
vagabondish  life  of  the  generous-hearted,  improvi- 
dent Goldsmith  appealed  to  Irving's  sympathies  and 
kindled  once  more  his  waning  imagination  till  it 
glowed  again  as  if  with  its  earlier  accustomed 
warmth.  The  result  is  a  biography  showing  deep 
inxiiiht  into  the  character  and  worth,  and  tender 
sympathy  with  the  foibles  and  frailties,  of  one  of  the 
most  beloved  authors  of  English  literature  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  Irving's  "Goldsmith"  has  not 


WASHINGTON    IRVINC  67 

been  surpassed,  if  indeed  it  has  been  equaled,  by  any 
subsequent  biographer.  You  will  read  it  through 
from  cover  to  cover  without  finding  a  dull  page 
in  it. 

Irving  richly  deserves  the  distinction  usually  ac- 
corded him  of  being  the  first  American  author  to 
win  for  himself  a  conspicuous  and  unfading  name 
in  the  department  of  letters.  His  star  now  for  well- 
nigli  half  a  century  has  shone  with  undimmed  lustre 
and  shows  no  sign  of  being  immediately  eclipsed. 
This  honor  has  been  achieved  not  by  our  author's 
intellectual  force  and  acumen,  nor  by  his  creative 
imagination  and  incisive  literary  touch,  but  by  the 
free  play  of  his  romantic  fancy,  his  pervading  sen- 
timent, his  unfailing,  delightful  humor  and  his 
charming  style.  Herein  lies  the  secret  of  his  suc- 
cess. The  charm  of  Irving's  style  is  remarkable/ 
and  proves  clearly,  as  Shakespeare's  brilliant  exam- 
ple does,  that  the  literary  art  and  vital  spark  are  not 
confined  exclusively  to  academic  halls. 

Irving  appeals  to  the  sensibilities  rather  than  to* 
the  intellect,  to  the  heart  rather  than  to  the  headJ 
His  register,  to  use  a  musical  term,  is  not  great ;  his 
range  is  not  wide.  There  are  notes  he  never  sounded, 
depths  and  heights  he  never  reached.  The  tragedy 
of  life,  the  profoundest  problems  of  human  exist- 
ence, the  realm  of  philosophical  speculation — these 
were  to  Irving  an  unexplored  country  which  his  cre- 
ative mind  never  entered.  The  subtle  analysis  of 
Poe  and  the  perplexing  social  problems  and  deep 
mysteries  of  Hawthorne  had  for  Irving  no  special 
interest  or  attraction.  He  did  not  make  his  works 
a  medium  for  communicating  to  the  world  mere 
metaphysical  exercises  of  marvelous  originality,  or 
great  moral  truths.  Such  studies  awaken  in  us  the 
spirit  of  inquiry  and  speculation,  disturb  our  peace 


68  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  mind  and  tend  to  unsettle  our  convictions.    Irv- 
ing's  works,  on  the  other  hand,  induce  to  repose  and 
quiet  musing;   they  do  not  agitate  or  ruffle  our 
spirits.    They  reflect  their  author's  own  quiet  and 
reposeful  nature,  as  that  nature  is  enlivened  by  a 
delightful  vein  of  humor  and  sentiment.    For  this 
reason  Irving  is  not  especially  stimulating  or  sug- 
gestive.   He  is  the  author  to  be  read  when  one  de- 
sires particularly  amusement  and  unfeigned  delight. 
For  this  reason  he  is  a  favorite  with  the  general 
public  and  young  readers,  for  he  possesses,  above  all 
things,  the  power  of  entertaining  and  at  the  same 
time  refines  and  elevates  the  taste.    This  is  due 
quite  as  much  to  his  style  as  to  his  subject-matter. 
It  is  little  short  of  marvelous  that  Irving,  who  never 
kept  terms  at  a  university  or  college  and  whose  edu- 
cation was  quite  defective,  should  have  elaborated) 
a  style  which,  in  the  words  of  an  eminent  critic,  "is  \ 
distinctively  his  own,  and  is  as  copious,'  felicitous  | 
in  the  choice  of  words,  flowing,  spontaneous,  flexi- ; 
ble,  engaging,  clear  and  as  little  wearisome  when  ', 
read  continuously  in  quantity  as  any  in  the  English  \ 
tongue." 

Irving  did  not  share  the  restless  energy  of  the, 
typical  American.  Unlike  most  of  his  countrymen 
he  seems  to  have  found  more  to  interest  him  in  the' 
past  than  in  the  present  or  future.  Janus-like,  his 
face  was  set  both  toward  the  east  and  toward  the 
west.  However,  Irving's  inclination  to  the  east  with 
its  Old  World  traditions,  some  think,  made  his 
love  for  the  west  kick  the  beam.  It  is  true  he  foundl 
.  in  the  historic  personages  and  romantic  traditions)* 
I  of  tin*  pasl,  Mir  chief  sources  of  his  inspiration.  The 
Old  World  exercised  over  him  a  preponderating  in- 
fluence. Yet  Irving  was  American  to  his  finger-tips. 
Where  can  we  find  a  bit  of  literature  more  distinct- 


WASHINGTON    IIJVINC  69 

ively  American  than  "Knickerbocker's  History  of 
New  York,"  or  the  "Sketch-Book,"  or  "Captain  Bon- 
neville,"  or  "Astoria,"  or  "A  Tour  of  the  Prairies"? 
Surely,  these  smack  of  the  soil  and  have  the  gen- 
uine, unmistakable  American  flavor.  We  treasure 
them  as  a  part  of  Irving's  valuable  legacy  to  Ameri- 
can literature. 


IRVING 
RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on:  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth 
any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  dis- 
cussions that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an 
old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 
traveler.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con- 
tents, as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
school-master,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictiona^;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con- 
trolled by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he 
took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suf- 
ficiently to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by 
his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great 


WASHIXCTON    IRVING  71 

man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and 
knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
thai  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  ob- 
served to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth 
short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased,  he 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds;  and  sometimes,  tak- 
ing the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head 
in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud- 
denly break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this-  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair; 
and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of 
the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share 
the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 
sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  recipro- 
cated the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day.  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the 
highest  parts  of  the  Kaafskill  Mountains.  He  was 
after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  re- 
ports of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw 
himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  cov- 
ered with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow 


72  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees 
he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a 
mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent 
but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun- 
tain glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Kip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing,  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encoun- 
tering the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from 
a  distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Eip  Van 
Winkle!"  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun- 
tain. He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van 
Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"— at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place; 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was 
a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  73 

and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion:  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist,  several  pair  of  breeches1,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and 
made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alac- 
rity; and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clam- 
bered up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather 
cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  towards  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  sup- 
posing it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient 
thunder-showers1  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur- 
rounded by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks 
of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that 
you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and 
his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence;  for  though 
the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet 
there  was-  something  ,strange  and  incomprehensible! 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor- 
mous breeches  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes;  the  face  of 


74  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various 
shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 
the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with 
a  weather-beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doub- 
let, broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the 
figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the 
settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mys- 
terious silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy 
party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  fixed,  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  un- 
couth, lack-lustre  countenances-,  that  his  heart  turned 
within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  com- 
panion now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com- 
pany. He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  re- 
turned to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to 
taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  tlu» 
flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
Iliirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another;  and  he  reiter- 
ated his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 
senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 


WASHINGTON    IRVIN<;  75 

his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  lie  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning. 
The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the 
bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast- 
ing the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought 
Kip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange 
man  with  a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone 
parly  at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "Oh!  that  flagon! 
that  wicked  flagon!"  thought  Kip — "what  excuse  shall 
I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire- 
lock lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the 
lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the  mountain  had 
put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  dis- 
appeared, but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a 
squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even- 
ing's gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 
blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen;  he  found  the 
gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a 
mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 


76  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its 
sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of 
birch,  sassafras  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that 
twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no 
traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented 
a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a 
broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur- 
rounding forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought 
to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his 
head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart 
full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 
prised him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 
with  every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress, 
too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  con- 
stant recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involun- 
tarily, to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting 
after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs, 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  77 

too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very 
village  was  altered;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts 
had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
— strange  faces  at  the  windows, — everything  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village, 
which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the 
Kaats-kill  Mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at 
a  distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as 
it  had  always  been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "That 
flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor 
head  sadly !" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent 
awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice 
of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to 
decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and 
the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 
looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and 
passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed — "My  very 
dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me !" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  deso- 
lateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears — he  called 
loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the  lonely  chambers 
rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  again  all 
was  silence. 


CHAPTER  IV 
JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

It  is  now  more  than  a  half  century  since  J.  Feni- 
more  Cooper  joined  the  silent  majority  and  ceased 
to  wield  his  facile  and  prolific  pen.  He  was  the 
most  voluminous  of  American  authors,  writing  well- 
nigh  a  hundred  volumes  in  all,  and  turning  out 
"copy"  almost  till  the  day  of  his  death.  Even  when 
he  died,  on  the  eve  of  his  sixty-second  birthday,  he 
had  several  literary  works  well  planned  out  in  his 
mind,  and  left  some  of  them  practically  finished. 
At  the  time  of  his  death  his  "Towns  of  Manhattan" 
was  in  press,  though  not  actually  completed. 

After  the  lapse  of  fifty-three  years,  when  the  an- 
tagonism and  calumny  which  embittered  his  latter 
days,  it  may  be  presumed,  have  all  passed  awa y,— 
or,  if  they  are  still  alive,  survive  only  as  a  mem- 
ory,— we  may  review,  with  some  hope  of  fairness 
and  impartiality,  Cooper's  life  work  and  form  a 
critical  estimate  of  the  service  of  the  American 
Scott  (as  he  used  to  be  called  in  the  heyday  of  his 
fame)  to  American  letters.  Such  an  estimate  could 
hardly  have  been  formed  a  half  century  ago  by  the 
men  of  Cooper's  own  generation,  because  of  the 
prejudice  and  bitter  feeling  entertained  against  him 
as  a  man;  for  of  all  deceased  American  men  of  let- 
ters Cooper  was  Hie  least  esteemed  and  most 
harshly  criticised  at  Hie  time  of  his  demise.  The 
storm  of  unpopularity  which  burst  upon  his  head 
came  as  the  inevitable  result  of  his  severe  strictures 
upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  his  own  country- 


JAMKS  FKMMOUI:  rooi'KU  79 

men,  and  Ihe  numerous  lawsuits  he  instituted 
against  the  ofl'ending  American  press.  Despite  the 
claim  of  the  hostile  critics  that  Cooper  threatened 
to  curtail  the  freedom  of  the  press,  he  was  awarded 
damages  in  a  succession  of  lihel  suits.  But  his  vic- 
tories over  the  press  proved  Pyrrhic  victories  in  the 
end,  since  they  cost  him  as  an  author  the  sympathy 
and  esteem  of  the  entire  American  press,  which 
ultimately  came  to  regard  him  as  an  inveterate 
enemy,  dubbing  him  contemptuously  the  "Great 
Persecutor." 

Cooper's  unpopularity  had  its  inception  in  a  mis- 
take of  judgment  on  his  part  and  the  consequent 
misrepresentation  by  the  press.  He  forfeited  the 
esteem  of  his  countrymen  by  his  own  impetuosity 
and  constitutional  inability  to  remain  silent,  when 
attacked,  till  a  suitable  opportunity  offered  to  vin- 
dicate his  course.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Cooper's 
offensive  conduct  originated  in  a  commendable 
effort  on  his  part  to  resent  certain  imputations 
upon  his  own  country  made  during  his  residence 
abroad.  The  verdict  of  the  press  to  the  contrary, 
Cooper  was  intensely  patriotic  and  could  not  find  it 
in  his  nature  to  endure  in  silence  any  reflections 
upon  his  native  land.  When  abroad  he  Avas  quick, 
if  occasion  arose,  to  break  a  lance  in  behalf  of 
America  and  Americans.  When  he  arrived  in  Eng- 
land at  the  height  of  his  fame,  the  recollection  of 
the  second  galling  defeat  of  the  British  arms  on 
American  soil  still  lingered  in  the  rninds  of  the 
English  people,  and  they  did  not  always  exercise 
precaution  when  they  vented  their  prejudices 
against  America.  It  was  this  occasional  unfriendly 
criticism  of  Americans  that  led  Cooper  to  cross  the 
Channel  and  take  up  his  residence  in  France. 
While  here  he  was  reluctantly  drawn  into  a  warm 


80  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

controversy  about  the  economy  of  a  republican  form 
of  government  as  opposed  to  monarchy,  which 
originated  in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies.  A 
discussion  of  finance  in  connection  with  American 
politics  grew  out  of  this  controversy.  Cooper,  be- 
coming involved  in  the  discussion,  addressed  an 
open  letter  to  the  American  people  which  provoked 
several  papers  to  assail  his  conduct  abroad  as  an 
American  citizen.  The  effect  of  this  unfortunate 
incident  was  to  sour  and  embitter  Cooper  and  has- 
ten his  return  to  America.  He  even  made  a  rash 
promise  to  himself  to  abandon  writing  altogether. 
Cooper,  somehow,  seems  not  to  have  kept  in  close 
touch  with  American  sentiment  and  ideas  during 
his  foreign  residence.  It  is  noteworthy  that  when 
he  returned  to  America,  soured  and  embittered  in 
consequence  of  the  hostile  criticism  by  his  own 
countrymen,  he  found  himself  out  of  sympathy  and 
harmony  with  many  institutions  and  ideals  charac- 
teristically American.  Some  changes  in  American 
manners  and  customs  had  taken  place  during  his 
absence  abroad  that  did  not  commend  themselves 
to  his  judgment  or  meet  his  approval.  When  he 
moved  to  his  old  home  at  Cooperstown,  he  became 
embroiled  in  an  ugly  dispute  with  the  citizens  of 
that  town  as  to  his  possession  of  a  piece  of  land 
much  used  as  a  public  resort.  At  this  unhappy 
juncture  he  rushed  into  print.  He  gave  forceful 
and  vigorous  expression  to  the  grievances,  real  and 
fancied,  he  had  been  nursing,  and  vindicated  his 
course  in  an  ill-advised  "Letter  to  His  Country- 
men." Besides  ventilating  freely  his  grievances, 
Cooper  took  occasion  in  this  letter  to  administer  a 
rebuke  to  the  administration  and  to  criticise  the 
government  in  general.  This  wholesale  censure 
and  vituperation  invited  attack  from  all  quarters, 
and  Cooper  soon  found  himself  the  victim  of  re- 


JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPER  81 

peated  newspaper  assaults,  wliich  he  only  stopped 
by  availing  liiinself  of  the  law  against  libel.  But 
implacable  hostility  and  unrelenting  obloquy  fol- 
lowed him  to  his  grave. 

Cooper  was  born  in  1789,  at  Burlington,  New  Jer- 
sey, where  the  Coopers  were  residing  for  a  short 
time,  till  their  vast  estate  in  Central  New  York  was 
ready  for  occupancy.  His  father,  who  had  repre- 
sented New  York  State  in  Congress,  had  acquired 
large  tracts  of  land  on  Otsego  Lake  and,  in  open- 
ing up  this  vast  region  of  dismal  waste  and  path- 
less forest,  founded  the  town  still  called  after  his 
name — Cooperstown.  The  family  moved  into  that 
country  when  James  Fenimore  was  only  a  year  old. 
Here  on  the  border  of  a  boundless  wilderness  the 
lad  grew  up  among  the  pioneers,  and  here  the  pros- 
pective writer  received  his  first  impressions  amid 
the  primitive  surroundings  of  Nature,  almost  in  the 
primeval  forest.  After  a  brief  schooling  at  an 
academy  in  Albany  and  later  at  Yale,  the  young  col- 
legian marked  out  for  himself  a  naval  career  and 
shipped  before  the  mast  in  1806,  soon  becoming  a 
midshipman.  But  he  afterwards  grew  tired  of  the 
navy,  which  proved  uncongenial  to  his  tastes,  and 
resigned  from  the  service  in  1811.  Within  a  year 
we  find  him  married  and  settled  down  to  the  easy 
life  of  a  country  gentleman  on  a  farm  near  his 
paternal  estate.  Here  he  lived  in  apparent  con- 
tentment, giving  all  his  time  and  attention  to  his 
farm,  and  showing  not  the  least  indication  of  his 
latent  literary  ambition.  Indeed,  it  was  not  till  he 
was  thirty  years  old  that  he  turned  his  attention, 
as  if  by  mere  accident,  to  literature. 

Cooper  began  his  literary  career  under  favorable 
auspices.  The  beginning,  however,  seems  the  result 
of  mere  whim  and  accident.  Reading  in  his  home 
at  Angevine  a  novel  descriptive  of  English  society, 


82  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

he  threw  the  book  down  in  sheer  disgust,  and  re- 
marked to  his  wife,  "I  believe  I  could  write  a  better 
story  myself!"  He  was  challenged  to  make  good 
his  boast,  and,  inspired  by  the  encouraging  words 
of  his  wife  as  the  work  advanced,  he  produced  at 
length  the  two-volume  novel  "Precaution,"  which 
was  published  in  New  York,  November,  1820.  This 
novel  is  not  a  work  of  any  great  merit,  but  it  is 
interesting  as  being  the  first  heir  of  Cooper's  in- 
vention. "Precaution"  is  a  story  of  English  so- 
ciety, and  purports  to  have  been  written  by  an 
Englishman.  The  conception  of  the  story  is  con- 
ventional enough,  and  reflects  the  prevailing  liter- 
ary sentiment  and  fashion  of  the  times.  The  title 
was  suggested  by  the  obvious  moral  of  the  desira- 
bility of  precaution  in  the  selection  of  a  husband 
or  wife.  Yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  the 
chief  incidents  of  the  story, — the  misunderstand- 
ings and  perplexing  situations  in  which  the  lead- 
ing characters  are  placed, — all  arise  from  an  excess 
of  precaution,  and  illustrate  forcibly  the  undesira- 
bility  of  too  much  precaution.  The  book  did  not 
awaken  much  interest  either  in  America  or  in  Eng- 
land, where  it  was  subsequently  published.  In 
some  quarters  in  England  it  received  favorable  no- 
tice ;  nor  was  its  American  authorship  for  a  moment 
suspected.  The  author  had  succeeded  somewhat 
in  describing  scenes  he  was  unfamiliar  with  and  a 
society  with  which  he  was  practically  unac- 
quainted. Cooper's  friends,  for  this  reason,  saw  iu 
liis  first  novel  promise  of  success  under  favorable 
conditions,  and  urged  him  to  write  another  story 
describing  a  society  that  ho  knew. 

At  the  urgent  instance  of  his  friends,  therefore, 
Cooper  resolved  to  write  another  novel,  and,  in  his 
own  phrase,  (o  inflict,  a  second  volume  upon  the 
world  to  atone  for  the  first.  Acting  upon  the  wise 


.1  AMI-IS    FKXIMOKi:    COOI'KK  83 

suggestion  of  his  critics,  he  turned  to  liis  own  coun- 
try this  time  for  his  inspiration,  and  chose  a  theme 
from  an  incident  in  the  American  Revolution.  The 
resulting  novel  was  "The  Spy,"  which  appeared 
within  fourteen  months  after  "Precaution."  "The 
Spy"  is  important,  not  only  for  its  intrinsic  merit 
as  a  literary  production,  but  also  because  it  re- 
vealed a  new  and  unexplored  field  for  American 
fiction.  In  this  country  the  book  met  with  an  un- 
precedented sale,  and  was  very  favorably  received 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Indeed,  it  is  but 
truth  to  say  that  this  novel  made  Cooper's  reputa- 
tion both  at  home  and  abroad.  "The  Spy"  speedily 
found  its  way  to  the  Continent  through  a  French 
version  made  by  the  translator  of  the  Waverley 
novels,  and  was  soon  accessible  in  all  the  principal 
tongues  of  modern  Europe.  It  was  everywhere 
hailed  with  acclamation  and  delight,  except  perhaps 
in  England.  In  that  country  it  did  not  arouse  quite 
so  much  enthusiasm,  because  the  English  naturally 
did  not  find  the  same  unmixed  pleasure  in  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  the  story  as  the  readers  of  other 
nationalities.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  historical  theme, 
the  tale,  from  the  point  of  view  of  mere  art,  arrested 
the  attention  of  English  readers  and  compelled 
their  admiration. 

Cooper  scored  a  great  and  instantaneous  success 
in  "The  Spy."  To  begin  with,  he  was  happy  in  the 
choice  and  conception  of  his  theme,  and  no  less 
happy  in  its  execution.  He  was  no  longer,  as  in 
his  "Precaution,"  on  foreign  ground,  delineating 
strange,  unfamiliar  scenes  and  characters.  He 
stood  on  the  soil  of  his  own  native  country,  and 
knew  the  land  made  famous  by  the  heroic  struggles 
of  the  Revolutionary  forces.  He  had  a  personal 
acquaintance,  too,  with  not  a  few  of  the  men  who 


84  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

took  part  in  that  war.  In  addition  to  this,  he  was 
conversant  Avith  the  history  and  unwritten  tradi- 
tions of  the  great  conflict  between  the  colonies  and 
tlie  mother  country,  which  never  failed  to  quicken 
his  imagination  and  inspire  his  pen.  The  times 
were  also  propitious  for  such  an  historical  romance 
as  "The  Spy" ;  for  the  recent  publication  of  the  un- 
paralleled series  of  the  Waverley  novels  had  given 
rise  to  an  all-absorbing  popular  interest  in  romance 
which  swept  like  wildfire  over  the  reading  world. 
America  at  that  time  had  not  declared  her  literary 
independence  of  English  supremacy,  so  that  Scott 
had  unconsciously  created  the  romantic  atmosphere 
for  "The  Spy."  It  is  evident,  then,  that  all  the  at- 
tendant circumstances  conspired  to  make  Cooper's 
second  venture  a  success,  if  it  possessed  any  real 
merit  of  its  own,  which  it  did. 

The  unbounded  popularity  achieved  by  "The 
Spy"  stimulated  Cooper  to  renewed  effort  and  in- 
dustry. But  he  was  not  yet  sure  of  his  literary 
calling,  and  determined  to  make  one  more  trial 
before  reaching  a  final  decision.  He  thought  the 
success  of  "The  Spy"  might,  somehow  or  other,  be 
due  to  a  happy  hit,  or  to  a  fortunate  combination  of 
circumstances,  rather  than  to  any  exceptional 
power  and  skill  which  its  author  himself  possessed. 
Accordingly,  he  set  to  work  again  to  depict  the 
scenes  and  characters  of  frontier  life  in  America 
he  had  learned  to  know  in  his  childhood.  This 
effort  crystallized  in  a  third  novel,  "The  Pioneers," 
which  appeared  in  1823. 

"The  Pioneers"  is  the  first,  chronologically,  of  the 
five  noted  stories  commonly  known  as  the  Leather- 
Stocking  Tales.  Tiiis  scries,  as  is  well  known,  con- 
tains i  lie  author's  characterizations  of  the  frontier 
men  he  used  to  see  when  a  boy,  and  many  of  the 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  85 

stirring  situations  are  reproduced  largely  from 
memory.  It  is  hard  to  say,  therefore,  where  fiction 
ceases  in  these  tales  and  fact  begins.  "The  Pio- 
neers" is  usually  regarded  the  poorest  of  the 
Leather-Stocking  series,  though  it  contains  some 
thrilling  scenes  and  fine  descriptions.  Yet  the  book 
was  warmly  received,  three  thousand  five  hundred 
copies  being  sold  by  noon  of  the  day  of  its  publica- 
tion. Of  course  the  reputation  of  "The  Spy," 
which  had  left  a  good  taste  in  the  mouth  of  the 
public,  helped  the  sale  of  the  new  novel.  But  "The 
Pioneers"  was  not  forced  to  trade  upon  the  reputa- 
tion of  its  predecessor :  it  had  literary  excellence  of 
its  own.  It  is  entitled,  by  the  verdict  of  the  critics, 
to  rank  among  the  best  of  Cooper's  novels.  The 
marked  success  of  this  novel  settled  the  question 
of  a  literary  career  for  its  author.  From  this  time 
forth  till  the  day  of  his  death,  Cooper  wrote  with 
untiring  energy  and  unwavering  purpose. 

The  Leather- Stocking  Tales  were  suspended  after 
the  publication  of  the  initial  novel,  and  Cooper 
meanwhile  worked  an  entirely  different  vein.  The 
new  path  blazed  out  proved  almost  as  successful  a 
venture  as  any  previously  attempted  by  Cooper. 
He  furnished  additional  evidence  of  the  versatility 
of  his  geiiius  by  writing  a  striking,  original  sea 
story,  "The  Pilot."  By  the  production  of  this  en- 
tirely original  and  unconventional  type  of  fiction, 
Cooper  placed  the  American  public  under  lasting 
obligation  to  him.  Smollett,  it  is  true,  had  at- 
tempted the  delineation  of  the  naval  character,  but 
not  on  a  sufficiently  broad  scale  to  entitle  him  to 
the  distinction  of  the  originator  of  the  sea  story. 
It  remained  for  Cooper  to  win  this  honor  by  the 
signal  success  of  his  new  departure.  His  triumph 
is  all  the  more  remarkable  since  it  was  achieved  in 


86  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  face  of  strenuous  opposition  from  his  literary 
advisers  who,  from  the  novelty  and  difficulty  of  the 
sea  story,  saw  only  failure  in  that  direction.  But, 
contrary  to  all  expectations,  "The  Pilot"  proved  an 
immediate  and  complete  success.  Cooper's  daring 
example  in  this  unexplored  domain  of  fiction  hadi 
the  effect  of  stimulating  many  would-be  rivals;  but 
his  sea  stories  have  held  their  own  amid  an  ever- 
increasing  host  of  competitors,  and  show  no  indica- 
tion of  being  soon  superseded. 

Cooper's  early  experiences  as  a  naval  officer  fur- 
nished him  a  rich  fund  of  material  to  draw  upon 
for  the  subject-matter  and  local  color  of  his  sea 
tales,  and  he  turned  it  to  good  account.  He  showed 
good  judgment,  in  the  first  place,  in  the  selection  of 
a  theme  for  his  first  sea  story.  He  gave  proof,  at 
the  same  time,  of  his  ardent  patriotism  in  harking 
back  to  the  Revolution  for  his  hero  in  the  intrepid 
and  daring  adventurer  John  Paul  Jones,  who  is  so 
thinly  disguised  in  the  story  that,  though  not  once 
named,  no  one  fails  to  recognize  him.  This  wise 
choice  of  a  hero  enlisted  at  once  the  sympathy  of 
the  American  public.  When  Cooper  invested  Paul 
Jones  with  an  atmosphere  of  romance  and  lavished 
upon  him  the  wealth  of  his  artistic  touch,  lie  re- 
created an  historical  personage  of  prepossess!  ng 
interest  and  produced  a  sea  story  which  contains 
some  scenes  as  thrilling  and  stirring  as  any  to  be 
found  in  any  novel  of  its  kind  in  our  literature. 

Cooper's  interest  in  the  American  Revolution  was 
so  dominant  as  to  induce  him  to  resort  thither  for 
the  subject  of  his  next  novel — "Lionel  Lincoln,  or 
the  Leaner  of  Boston."  This  work  cost  its  author  a 
vast  deal  of  investigation  and  untold  labor.  Be- 
sides poring  over  (lie  dusty  tomes  of  historical 
records,  Cooper  n-adc  a  special  study  of  the  topo<>-ra- 


JAMES   FENIMOUE   COOPER 


87 


pliy  of  the  country  around  P»oston,  in  the  hope  of 
making  his  story  accurate  in  every  detail.  The 
virtue  of  historical  accuracy  "Lionel  Lincoln"  may 
possess;  but  it  lacks  imagination,  and  the  want  of 
this  prime  essential  in  the  romance  degrades  it  as 
an  artistic  production  below  the  level  of  mere 
mediocrity  to  that  of  flat  failure.  A  glaring  defect 
of  the  story  is  seen  in  the  fact  that  the  characters 
act  from  insufficient  motive.  As  a  novelist,  Cooper 
is  especially  vulnerable  on  this  score.  His  charac- 
ters are  not  clearly  defined.  Those  in  the  story 
under  discussion  appear  stilted  and  under  consid- 
erable restraint  in  their  intercourse  with  one  an- 
other. They  lack  grace  and  freedom  of  action,  and 
seem  like  puppets.  The  redeeming  quality  of 
"Lionel  Lincoln"  is  the  conceded  excellence  of  the 
battle  scenes,  which  contribute  much  to  the  reader's 
interest  to  atone  for  the  want  of  life  and  action  in 
the  characters. 

The  failure  of  "Lionel  Lincoln"  was  fully  offset, 
however,  by  the  phenomenal  success  of  the  novel 
that  followed  it— "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans."  This 
is  regarded  by  many  critics  as  the  best  of  the 
famous  "Leather-Stocking"  series,  and  perhaps  the 
finest  story  Cooper  ever  wrote.  Certainly  it  is  true 
that  of  all  Cooper's  novels  "The  Last  of  the  Mohi- 
cans" is  the  novel,  preeminently,  in  which  the  inter- 
est is  sustained  throughout,  and  the  tale  is  replete 
with  excitement,  bristling  with  incident  and  action. 
Unlike  some  of  its  author's  stories,  "The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans"  does  not  contain  those  dreary  wastes  of 
verbiage  here  and  there  which  tax  the  reader's  at- 
tention. On  the  contrary,  this  tale  holds  the  read- 
er's rapt  attention  from  beginning  to  end,  without 
interruption.  But  the  book,  to  use  a  somewhat 


88  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

hackneyed  phrase,  is  not  faultily  faultless.  It,  too, 
shows,  in  some  measure,  its  author's  characteristic 
defect  of  insufficiency  of  motive  for  action  and  lack 
of  precision  in  characterization.  But  these  draw- 
backs do  not  appreciably  detract  from  the  engaging, 
unflagging  interest  of  the  story,  and  they  are  not 
generally  noticed  except  by  the  critical  eye  on  the 
close  hunt  for  flaws. 

"The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,57  as  compared  with 
"The  Pioneers,"  represents  Leather-Stocking  as 
greatly  advanced  in  dignity  and  strength  of  charac- 
ter. In  "The  Pioneers"  he  is  portrayed  as  an  irri- 
table, petulant,  ignorant  old  man,  moving  farther 
and  farther  away  from  civilization,  into  the  interior 
of  the  trackless  forests,  and  deploring  the  inevitable 
results  of  the  march  of  progress.  In  "The  Last  of 
the  Mohicans,"  on  the  other  hand,  his  weaknesses 
are  no  longer  emphasized,  while  the  strong  points 
of  the  bold  adventurer's  character  are  made  to 
stand  out  in  bold  relief.  He  remains,  to  be  sure, 
the  same  fearless,  observant  scout,  but  his  senses 
have  grown  much  more  acute  and  his  resources  are 
a  match  for  any  situation,  however  perilous.  This 
clever  idealization  and  delineation  of  the  intrepid 
hunter  is  a  notable  feature  of  "The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,"  and  remains  a  great  achievement  in 
American  literature.  The  delineation  of  the  Indian 
character  in  Chingachook  and  Uncas,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  not  regarded  as  quite  so  successful  an 
achievement.  Still  Cooper's  conception  of  the  In- 
dian character,  as  elaborated  in  this  and  other 
novels  of  the  Leather- Stocking  series,  has  been 
almost  universally  adopted,  and  has  entered  perma- 
nently into  the  popular  imagination. 

The  publication  of  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans" 
raised  Cooper's  popularity  to  its  high- water  mark. 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  89 

His  novels  now  appeared  simultaneously  in  Amer- 
ica and  England.  His  reputation  as  a  writer  of 
fiction  was  unrivaled  in  America,  and  was  sur- 
passed in  Europe  only  by  that  of  Scott,  the  Wizard 
of  the  North.  The  English,  however,  were  not  so 
enthusiastic  in  their  admiration  as  the  French. 
Yet  even  in  England  some  critics  were  unbounded 
in  their  praise,  and  considered  Cooper's  novels  as  no 
whit  inferior  to  the  romances  of  Scott.  "Have 
you  read  the  American  novels?"  asked  Mary  Russell 
Mitford,  herself  a  novelist  of  no  mean  repute,  of  a 
friend  of  hers,  in  1842.  "In  my  mind,"  con- 
tinued she,  "they  are  as  good  as  anything  Sir  Wal- 
ter ever  wrote.  He  has  opened  fresh  ground,  too 
(if  one  may  so  say  of  the  sea).  No  one  but  Smol- 
lett has  ever  attempted  to  delineate  the  naval  char- 
acter; and  then  his  novels  are  so  coarse  and  hard. 
Now  this  has  the  same  truth  and  power  with  a  deep, 
grand  feeling.  .  .  .  Imagine  the  author's  bold- 
ness in  taking  Paul  Jones  for  a  hero,  and  his  power 
in  making  one  care  for  him !  I  envy  the  Americans 
their  Mr.  Cooper.  .  .  .  There  is  a  certain  Long 
Tom  who  appears  to  me  the  finest  thing  since  Par- 
son Adams."  Referring  particularly  to  "The  Last 
of  the  Mohicans,"  she  remarked  subsequently,  in  a 
letter  to  Haydon:  "I  like  it  better  than  any  of 
Scott's,  except  the  first  three  and  'The  Heart  of 
Midlothian.' ' 

Such  golden  opinions  as  these,  it  need  hardly  be 
observed,  were  not  generally  current  and  openly 
expressed  in  England.  It  would  have  been  re- 
garded as  literary  heresy  for  the  English  press  to 
speak  of  Cooper  as  the  peer  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Indeed,  the  professional  critics  in  Great  Britain,  on 
account  of  certain  traditional  prejudices,  were 
rather  slow  to  render  Cooper  his  due  meed  of 


90  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

praise.  They  did  not  venture  openely  to  concede  his 
merit  until  his  power  was  everywhere  freely  ac- 
knowledged on  the  Continent  as  well  as  in  America. 
The  reason,  presumably,  is  that  Cooper  displayed 
very  little  regard  for  English  prejudices  in  the 
choice  of  his  subjects  for  literary  treatment,  often 
selecting  themes  that  were  positively  distasteful 
and  offensive  to  them,  as  in  "The  Spy"  and  "The 
Pilot."  Of  American  writers  Irving  was  far  more 
acceptable  to  English  readers  than  Cooper.  In 
fact,  Irving  was  a  favorite  with  them.  Compari- 
sons of  course  are  proverbially  odious  (sometimes 
also  odorous,  as  Mrs.  Malaprop  puts  it)  ;  and  this  is 
not  the  place  to  compare  these  two  gifted  American 
authors.  Still,  in  the  realm  of  romance,  compari- 
son between  Cooper  and  Irving  would  greatly  re- 
dound, beyond  all  question,  to  the  credit  of  the 
former.  This,  however,  is  not  intended  to  the  dis- 
paragement of  Irving,  who,  in  this,  as  well  as  in 
other  departments,  rendered  generous  and  enduring 
service  to  American  letters. 

Cooper  sailed  for  Europe  in  1826  when  he  was  at 
the  height  of  his  fame.  During  his  residence 
abroad  his  literary  activity  was  incessant.  "The 
Prairie,"  "The  Bed  Rover,"  "The  Wept  of  Wisli- 
ton-Wish,"  and  "The  Water  Witch"  followed  one 
another  in  quick  succession,  and  attest  his  industry. 
These  stories  all  portray  scenes  and  characters  dis- 
tinctively American,  and  were  in  the  vein  of  his 
former  fiction.  "The  Prairie"  is  pervaded  with  a 
spirit  of  submission  and  lacks  the  bustle  and  excite- 
ment that  characterized  its  predecessor  in  the 
Leather-Stocking  series.  The  scenes  and  characters 
are  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  grandeur  and 
solitude  such  as  \\e  may  imagine  tilled  I  lie  primitive 
forests  when  the  lonely  white  man  pushed  his  way 


,i A.MI:S   ri:.\iMouK  rooriii;  91 

through  their  pathless  domains.  Natty  Bumpo, 
or  Leather-Stocking,  is  represented  with  his  same 
unfaltering  resolution  and  dauntless  courage  and 
woodland  era  ft  withal,  forging  his  way  farther  and 
farther  from  the  stir  and  din  of  the  settlements  and 
becoming  more  and  more  resigned  in  his  old  age  to 
the  advance  of  civilization  which  was  destined  to 
destroy  utterly  the  "majestic  solitude  of  nature" 
and  make  it  contribute  to  man's  comfort  and 
luxury. 

"The  Red  Rover"  fully  maintained  its  author's 
reputation  as  a  writer  of  sea  stories.  Taken  as  a 
whole,  it  is  probably  the  best  thing  Cooper  ever  did 
of  its  special  kind  of  fiction.  But  "The  Wept  of 
Wishton-Wish," — the  very  title  is  perplexing  and 
altogether  infelicitous, — was  not  a  success.  In  this 
tale  Cooper  attempted  to  delineate  the  Puritan 
character  of  New  England,  which  was  beyond  the 
breadth  of  his  sympathy,  and  the  attempt  proved 
abortive.  "The  Wept  of  Wish  ton-Wish"  may  there- 
fore be  passed  over  as  a  story  of  little  merit,  which 
did  not  enhance  its  author's  reputation.  If  all  of 
Cooper's  novels  had  been  like  the  last  two  of  this 
group,  he  would  never  have  won  the  distinguishing 
soubriquet,  "the  American  Scott." 

Cooper's  halcyon  days  were  now  fast  approach- 
ing an  end.  The  decade  of  his  life  from  1830  to 
1840  was  a  period  of  vexatious  stress  and  strain, 
when  his  popularity  passed  under  a  shadow  and 
gave  place  to  persistent  misrepresentation  and  re- 
lentless calumny.  This  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ence upon  the  subsequent  productions  of  his  pen. 
The  political  turmoil  in  Europe  engrossed  his  at- 
tention and  lent  color  to  his  imagination.  His  feel- 
ings are  reflected  in  his  next  three  stories — "The 
Bravo,"  "The  Heideninauer,"  "The  Headsman"— 


92  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

all  of  which  were  indebted  to  the  political  condi- 
tions in  the  Old  World  for  their  inspiration.     They 
belong  to  that  class  of  fiction  known  as  the  purpose 
novel,  of  which  but  few  brilliant  examples  have 
ever    been    written.     Cooper's    purpose    in    these 
novels  was  to  exalt  republican  institutions  to  the 
disadvantage    of    monarchical.      The    doctrine    is 
sound  enough.     But  Cooper's  novels  met  with  a 
cool  reception  at  home  as  well  as  abroad.     Cooper 
himself,  becoming  embroiled  in  a  political  contro- 
versy, soon  returned  to  his  native  land  a  disgusted 
and  embittered,  but  not  a  wiser,  man.     He  vented 
his  feelings  in  a  novel  written  in  a  satiric  vein  and 
entitled  "The  Monikin."     It  fell  flat,  a  sad  failure. 
Cooper  thereupon  published  a  series  of  ten  volumes 
of  travels — "Sketches  of  Switzerland"  and  "Glean- 
ings in  Europe."     These  contain  some  fine  descrip- 
tive passages  interspersed  with  the  author's  sage 
reflections  upon  the  respective  countries  visited. 
The  travels  were  followed  by  two  volumes  of  very 
unequal  value — "Homeward  Bound"  and  "Home  as 
Found."     These  are  of  the  nature  of  novels,  and  the 
first,  as  the  title  implies,  has  its  scenes  laid  upon 
the  water,  and  is  a  tolerable  story.     The  second  is  a 
decidedly  unfortunate  book  in  consequence  of  its 
drastic  censure  of  the  American  people,  and  worked 
its  author  irreparable  damage.     It  was  this  unto- 
ward book  that  brought  down  a  storm  of  hostile 
criticism  upon  Cooper's  head,  utterly  undermining 
his    quondam    popularity.     During    Cooper's    war 
with  the  American  press  appeared  his  excellent 
"History  of  the  Navy" — a  capital  piece  of  historical 
research.     This  book  never  received  the  attention 
and  credit  it  richly  deserved  because  of  the  intense 
hatred  and  odium  that  Cooper,  by  his  indiscreet 
conduct,  had  incurred  in  the  public  estimation.    In- 


JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPER  93 

deed,  its  appearance  was  but  the  signal  for  a  re- 
newal of  those  scathing,  envenomed  attacks  which 
the  press  made  upon  the  author. 

The  bitter  controversy  and  the  resulting  dis 
favor,  far  from  silencing  Cooper,  seemed  rather  to 
stimulate  his  productivity,  so  that  the  period  from 
1840  to  1845  was  the  most  fecund  of  his  creative 
genius.  "The  Pathfinder"  and  "The  Deerslayer," 
representing  to  a  conspicuous  degree  the  very  best  in 
Cooper's  literary  art,  are  both  products  of  this 
period.  These  form  the  concluding  volumes  of  the 
"Leather-Stocking"  series  and,  for  artistic  creation 
and  finish,  mark  the  culmination  of  Cooper's  skill 
and  power,  in  the  opinion  of  his  biographer,  Profes- 
sor Lounsbury.  They  are  certainly  up  to  their 
author's  early  achievements  and,  together  with  the 
former  stories  of  the  series,  form  a  complete  history 
of  the  fitful,  eventful  life  of  Natty  Bumpo — the 
noblest  creation  of  Cooper's  imagination.  "It  is 
beautiful,  it  is  grand,"  said  Balzac  to  a  friend  in 
reference  to  "The  Pathfinder."  "Its  interest  is  tre- 
mendous. He  surely  owed  us  this  masterpiece  after 
the  last  two  or  three  rhapsodies  he  has  been  giving 
us.  You  must  read  it.  I  know  no  one  in  the  world, 
save  Walter  Scott,  who  has  risen  to  that  grandeur 
and  serenity  of  colors."  Yet  notwithstanding  the 
"unquestionable  worth  of  "The  Pathfinder"  and 
"The  Deerslayer,"  the  American  Press,  whenever  it 
noticed  them,  simply  did  so  to  decry  and  disparage 
them,  so  intense  were  the  animosity  and  malignity 
of  the  editors  as  a  class  toward  Cooper.  After  the 
triumph  achieved  in  these  last  two  novels,  Cooper 
reverted  to  his  love  for  the  sea  and  gave  to  the  world 
two  more  sea  stories — "The  Two  Admirals"  and 
"Wing  and  Wing."  Of  these  the  first  is  by  far  the 
better  tale,  and  is  really  the  last  of  Cooper's  numer- 


94  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ous  novels  it  is  worth  while  specifically  to  mention 
in  this  imperfect  sketch. 

Cooper  is  a  strikingly  unequal  author.  He  at- 
tempted to  cover  a  wide  range — from  sea  to  forest. 
As  long  as  he  kept  within  the  realm  of  his  imagina- 
tion, he  succeeded  admirably.  But  when  he  trans- 
cended these  bounds  and  wrote  for  an  ulterior 
purpose,  his  inspiration  deserted  him  completely, 
and  the  result  was  a  dismal  failure.  Among  his 
thirty-four  distinct  works  of  fiction  are  included 
eight  fine  novels  which  will  amply  repay  the  reader. 
These  are  the  five  Leather-Stocking  Tales,  the  two 
sea  stories,  "The  Pilot"  and  "The  Red  Kover,"  and 
the  Revolutionary  tale,  "The  Spy."  The  remaining 
novels,  though  they  contain  some  brilliant  bits  of 
description  scattered  through  them  here  and  there, 
are  hardly  worth  the  laborious  effort  of  reading 
them.  Cooper  as  a  writer  has  some  glaring  defects, 
such  as  the  prolixity  and  tedium  of  his  introduc- 
tions, his  want  of  definite  characterization,  the 
weakness  of  his  dialogue,  the  thinness  of  his  plot, 
and  his  insufficiency  of  motive  for  action.  More- 
over, his  novels  show  unmistakable  signs  of  haste 
and  immature  workmanship  both  in  matter  and 
manner.  His  language,  too,  is  not  above  criticism. 
He  appears  to  have  experienced  little  concern  for 
the  beauty  of  style,  although  he  doubtless  appre- 
ciated this  grace.  These  are  the  faults  and  blemishes 
in  Cooper  which  have  led  to  an  undue  depreciation 
of  his  works  by  the  critics.  With  those  of  untrained 
and  uncultivated  taste,  with  the  great  unwashed, 
he  remains  still  a  favorite  author. 

Cooper's  forte,  jxir  c.rccltcnce,  is  his  superior  de- 
scriptive  power.  He  is  a  master  in  the  realm  of 
description,  and  has  greatly  enriched  our  literature 
by  his  copious  pages.  Cooper  occupies  a  unique 


.IA.MKS    FKXIMOKK    COOl'KK  95 

place  a  in  on  £  American  men  of  letters,  also,  as  the 
discoverer  of  a  new  region  of  romance,  which  he 
worked  with  brilliant  success.  His  romances  even 
rivaled  those  of  Scott,  and  afforded  genuine  delight 
to  countless  readers  of  two  continents.  They  cast 
a  spell  over  such  an  undisputed  master  of  fiction  as 
Balzac,  who  paid  a  glowing  tribute  to  Cooper's 
creative  imagination  and  power  of  description, 
ranking  him  with  Scott.  Surely  it  required  genius 
to  produce  work  of  this  class  and  to  create  such 
imaginative  characters  as  Natty  Bumpo  and  Long 
Tom  Coffin. 


COOPER 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS 


(OPENING  CHAPTER). 

Mine  ear  Is  open  and  my  heart  prepared  : 
The  worst  is  worldly  loss  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost? 

SHAKESPEARE,  King  Richard  II.,  III.  ii.  93. 

It  was  a  feature  peculiar  to  the  colonial  wars  of 
North  America,  that  the  toils  and  dangers  of  the  wilder- 
ness were  to  be  encountered  before  the  adverse  hosts 
could  meet.  A  wide  and  apparently  an  impervious 
boundary  of  forests  severed  the  possessions  of  the  hos- 
tile provinces  of  France  and  England.  The  hardy 
colonist,  and  the  trained  European  who  fought  at  his 
side,  frequently  expended  months  in  struggling  against 
the  rapids  of  the  streams,  or  in  effecting  the  rugged 
passes  of  the  mountains,  in  quest  of  an  opportunity  to 
exhibit  their  courage  in  a  more  martial  conflict.  But, 
emulating  the  patience  and  self-denial  of  the  practiced 
native  warriors,  they  learned  to  overcome  every  diffi- 
culty; and  it  would  seem  that,  in  time,  there  was  no 
recess  of  the  woods  so  dark,  nor  any  secret  place  so 
lonely,  that  it  might  claim  exemption  from  the  inroads 
of  those  who  had  pledged  their  blood  to  satiate  their 
vengeance,  or  to  uphold  the  cold  and  selfish  policy  of 
the  distant  monarchs  of  Europe. 

Perhaps  no  district  throughout  the  wide  extent  of  the 
intermediate  frontiers  can  furnish  a  livelier  picture  of 
the  cruelty  and  fierceness  of  the  savage  warfare  of  those 
periods  than  the  country  which  lies  between  the 
waters  of  the  Hudson  and  the  adjacent  lakes. 


JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPKK  97 

The  facilities  which  nature  had  there  offered  to  the 
march  of  tin*  combatants  were  too  obvious  to  be  neg- 
lected. The  lengthened  sheet  of  the  Champlain 
stretched  from  the  frontiers  of  Canada,  deep  within  the 
borders  of  the  neighboring  province  of  New  York,  form- 
ing a  natural  passage  across  half  the  distance  that  the 
French  were  compelled  to  master  in  order  to  strike 
their  enemies.  Near  its  southern  termination,  it  re- 
ceived the  contributions  of  another  lake,  whose  waters 
were  so  limpid  as  to  have  been  exclusively  selected  by 
the  Jesuit  missionaries  to  perform  the  typical  purifica- 
tion of  baptism,  and  to  obtain  for  it  the  title  of  lake 
"du  Saint  Sacrement."  The  less  zealous  English 
thought  they  conferred  a  sufficient  honor  on  its  unsul- 
lied fountains,  when  they  bestowed  the  name  of  their 
reigning  prince,  the  second  of  the  house  of  Hanover. 
The  two  united  to  rob  the  untutored  possessors  of  its 
wooded  scenery  of  their  native  right  to  perpetuate  its 
original  appellation  of  "Horican." 

Winding  its  way  among  countless  islands,  and  im- 
bedded in  mountains,  the  "holy  lake"  extended  a  dozen 
leagues  still  further  to  the  south.  With  the  high  plain 
that  there  interposed  itself  to  the  further  passage  of 
the  water,  commenced  a  portage  of  as  many  miles, 
which  conducted  the  adventurer  to  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  at  a  point  where,  with  the  usual  obstructions 
of  the  rapids,  or  rifts,  as  they  were  then  termed  in  the 
language  of  the  country,  the  river  became  navigable  to 
the  tide. 

While,  in  the  pursuit  of  their  daring  plans  of  annoy- 
ance, the  restless-  enterprise  of  the  French  even  at- 
tempted the  distant  and  difficult  gorges  of  the  Alle- 
ghany,  it  may  easily  be  imagined  that  their  proverbial 
acuteness  would  not  overlook  the  natural  advantages 
of  the  district  we  have  just  described.  It  became,  em- 
phatically, the  bloody  arena,  in  which  most  of  the  bat- 
tles for  the  mastery  of  the  colonies  were  contested. 
Forts  were  erected  at  the  different  points  that  com- 
manded the  facilities  of  the  route,  and  were  taken  and 


98  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

retaken,  rased  and  rebuilt,  as  victory  alighted  on  the 
hostile  banners.  While  the  husbandman  shrank  back 
from  the  dangerous  passes,  within  the  safer  boundaries 
of  the  more  ancient  settlements,  armies  larger  than 
those  that  had  often  disposed  of  the  sceptres  of  the 
mother  countries  were  seen  to  bury  themselves  in  these 
forests,  whence  they  rarely  returned  but  in  skeleton 
bands,  that  were  haggard  with  care,  or  dejected  by  de- 
feat. Though  the  arts  of  peace  were  unknown  to  this 
fatal  region,  its  forests  were  alive  with  men ;  its  shades 
and  glens  rang  with  the  sounds  of  martial  music,  and 
the  echoes  of  its  mountains  threw  back  the  laugh,  or 
repeated  the  wanton  cry,  of  many  a  gallant  and  reck- 
less youth,  as  he  hurried  by  them,  in  the  noontide  of  his 
spirits,  to  slumber  in  a  long  night  of  forgetfulness. 

It  was  in  this  scene  of  strife  and  bloodshed  that  the 
incidents  we  shall  attempt  to  relate  occurred,  during 
the  third  year  of  the  war  which  England  and  France 
last  waged  for  the  possession  of  a  country  that  neither 
was  destined  to  retain. 

The  imbecility  of  her  military  leaders  abroad,  and  the 
fatal  want  of  energy  in  her  councils  at  home,  had  low- 
ered the  character  of  Great  Britain  from  the  proud 
elevation  on  which  it  had  been  placed  by  the  talents 
and  enterprise  of  her  former  warriors  and  statesmen. 
No  longer  dreaded  by  her  enemies,  her  servants  were 
fast  losing  the  confidence  of  self-respect.  In  this  mor- 
tifying abasement,  the  colonists,  though  innocent  of 
her  imbecility,  and  too  humble  to  be  the  agents  of  her 
blunders,  were  but  the  natural  participators. 

They  had  recently  seen  a  chosen  army  from  that 
country,  which,  reverencing  as  a  mother,  they  had 
blindly  believed  invincible — an  army  led  by  a  chief  who 
had  boon  selected  from  a  crowd  of  trained  warriors, 
for  his  niro  military  endowments — disgracefully  routed 
by  a  handful  of  French  and  Indians,  and  only  saved 
from  annihilation  by  the  coolness  and  spirit  of  a  Vir- 
ginia hoy,  whose  riper  fjimo  has  since  dilVnscd  itself, 
with  the  steady  intluence  of  moral  truth,  to  the  utter- 


JA.MKS    FKMMOKi:    COOI'KK  99 

most  confines  of  Christendom.  A  wide  frontier  had 
been  laid  naked  by  this  unexpected  disaster,  and  more 
substantial  evils  were  preceded  by  a  thousand  fanciful 
and  imaginary  dangers.  The  alarmed  colonists  be- 
lieved that  the  yells  of  the  savages  mingled  with  every 
fitful  gust  of  wind  that  issued  from  the  interminable 
forests  of  the  west.  The  terrific  character  of  their 
merciless  enemies  increased  immeasurably  the  natural 
horrors  of  warfare.  Numberless  recent  massacres  were 
still  vivid  in  their  recollections ;  nor  was  there  any  ear 
in  the  provinces  so  deaf  as  not  to  have  drunk  in  with 
avidity  the  narrative  of  some  fearful  tale  of  midnight 
murder,  in  which  the  natives  of  the  forests  were  the 
principal  and  barbarous  actors.  As  the  credulous  and 
excited  traveler  related  the  hazardous  chances  of  the 
wilderness,  the  blood  of  the  timid  curdled  with  terror, 
and  mothers  cast  anxious  glances  even  at  those  chil- 
dren which  slumbered  within  the  security  of  the  largest 
towns.  In  short,  the  magnifying  influence  of  fear  be- 
gan to  set  at  naught  the  calculations  of  reason,  and  to 
render  those  who  should  have  remembered  their  man- 
hood, the  slaves  of  the  basest  of  passions.  Even  the 
most  confident  and  the  stoutest  hearts  began  to  think 
the  issue  of  the  contest  was  becoming  doubtful;  and 
that  abject  class  was  hourly  increasing  in  numbers, 
who  thought  they  foresaw  all  the  possessions  of  the 
English  crown  in  America  subdued  by  their  Christian 
foes,  or  laid  waste  by  the  inroads  of  their  relentless 
allies. 

When,  therefore,  intelligence  was  received  at  the  fort 
which  covered  the  southern  termination  of  the  portage 
between  the  Hudson  and  the  lakes,  that  Montcalm  had 
been  seen  moving  up  the  Champlain,  with  an  army 
"numerous  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees,"  its  truth  was 
admitted  with  more  of  the  craven  reluctance  of  fear 
than  with  the  stern  joy  that  a  warrior  should  feel,  in 
finding  an  enemy  within  reach  of  his  blow.  The  news 
had  been  brought,  towards  the  decline  of  a  day  in  mid- 
summer, by  an  Indian  runner,  who  also  bore  an  urgent 


100  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

request  from  Munro,  the  commander  of  a  work  on  the 
shore  of  the  "holy  lake,"  for  a  speedy  and  powerful 
reinforcement.  It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  the 
distance  between  these  two  posts  was  less  than  five 
leagues.  The  rude  path,  which  originally  formed  their 
line  of  communication,  had  been  widened  for  the  pas- 
sage of  wagons;  so  that  the  distance  which  had  been 
travelled  by  the  son  of  the  forest  in  two  hours  might 
easily  be  effected  by  a  detachment  of  troops,  with  their 
necessary  baggage,  between  the  rising  and  setting  of  a 
summer  sun.  The  loyal  servants  of  the  British  crown 
had  given  to  one  of  these  forest  fastnesses  the  name  of 
William  Henry,  and  to  the  other  that  of  Fort  Edward ; 
calling  each  after  a  favorite  prince  of  the  reigning 
family.  The  veteran  Scotchman  just  named  held  the 
first,  with  a  regiment  of  regulars  and  a  few  provincials ; 
a  force  really  by  far  too  small  to  make  head  against 
the  formidable  power  that  Montcalm  was  leading  to 
the  foot  of  his  earthen  mounds.  At  the  latter,  how- 
ever, lay  General  Webb,  who  commanded  the  armies  of 
the  king  in  the  northern  provinces,  with  a  body  of  more 
than  five  thousand  men.  By  uniting  the  several  de- 
tachments of  his  command,  this  officer  might  have  ar- 
rayed nearly  double  that  number  of  combatants-  against 
the  enterprising  Frenchman,  who  had  ventured  so  far 
from  his  reinforcements,  with  an  army  but  little  su- 
perior in  numbers. 

But  under  the  influence  of  their  degraded  fortunes, 
both  officers  and  men  appeared  better  disposed  to  wait 
the  approach  of  their  formidable  antagonists,  within 
their  works,  than  to  resist  the  progress  of  their  march, 
by  emulating  the  successful  example  of  the  French  at 
Fort  du  Quesne,  and  striking  a  blow  on  their  advance. 

After  the  first  surprise  of  the  intelligence  had  a  little 
aba  ted,  a  rumor  was  spread  Ihrmigh  the  entrenched 
camp,  which  stretched  along  the  margin  of  the  Hudson, 
forming  a  chain  of  on  I  works  to  the  body  of  the  fort 
itself,  that  a  chosen  detachment  of  fifteen  hundred  men 
was  to  depart,  with  the  dawn,  for  William  Henry,  the 


JAM i-:s  FKMMOIM:  coon:1;  :oi 

post  at  the  northern  extremity  of  the  portage.  That 
•which  at  first  was-  only  rumor  soon  became  certainty, 
as  orders  passed  from  I  ho  quarters  of  the  commander- 
in-chief  to  the  several  corps  he  had  selected  for  this 
service,  to  prepare  for  their  speedy  departure.  All 
doubt  as  to  the  intention  of  Webb  now  vanished,  and 
an  hour  or  two  of  hurried  footsteps  and  anxious  faces 
succeeded.  The  novice  in  the  military  art  flew  from 
point  to  point,  retarding  his  own  preparations  by  the 
excess  of  his  violent  and  somewhat  distempered  zeal; 
while  the  more  practiced  veteran  made  his  arrange- 
ments with  a  deliberation  that  scorned  every  appear- 
ance of  haste ;  though  his  sober  lineaments  and  anxious 
eye  sufficiently  betrayed  that  he  had  no  very  strong  pro- 
fessional relish  for  the  as  yet  untried  and  dreaded  war- 
fare of  the  wilderness.  At  length  the  sun  set  in  a  flood 
of  glory,  behind  the  distant  western  hills,  and  as  dark- 
ness drew  its  veil  around  the  secluded  spot  the  sounds 
of  preparation  diminished ;  the  last  light  finally  disap- 
peared from  the  log  cabin  of  some  officer ;  the  trees  cast 
their  deeper  shadows  over  the  mounds-  and  the  rippling 
stream,  and  a  silence  soon  pervaded  the  camp,  as  deep 
as  that  which  reigned  in  the  vast  forest  by  which  it 
was  environed. 

According  to  the  orders  of  the  preceding  night,  the 
heavy  sleep  of  the  army  was  broken  by  the  rolling  of  the 
warning  drums,  whose  rattling  echoes  were  heard  issu- 
ing, on  the  damp  morning  air,  out  of  every  vista  of  the 
woods,  just  as  day  began  to  draw  the  shaggy  outlines 
of  some  tall  pines  of  the  vicinity  on  the  opening  bright- 
ness of  a  soft  and  cloudless  eastern  sky.  In  an  instant 
the  whole  camp  was  in  motion;  the  meanest  soldier 
arousing  from  his  lair  to  witness  the  departure  of  his 
comrades,  and  to  share  in  the  excitement  and  incidents 
of  the  hour.  The  simple  array  of  the  chosen  band  was 
soon  completed.  While  the  regular  and  trained  hire- 
lings of  the  king  marched  with  haughtiness  to  the  right 
of  the  line,  the  less  pretending  colonists  took  their 
humbler  position  on  its  left,  with  a  docility  that  long 


1Q2 


OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


practice  had  rendered  easy.  The  scouts  departed; 
strong  guards  preceded  and  followed  the  lumbering 
vehicles'  that  bore  the  baggage;  and  before  the  gray 
light  of  the  morning  was  mellowed  by  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  the  main  body  of  the  combatants  wheeled  into 
column,  and  left  the  encampment  with  a  show  of  high 
military  bearing,  that  served  to  drown  the  slumbering 
apprehensions  of  many  a  novice,  who  was  now  about 
to  make  his  first  essay  in  arms.  While  in  view  of  their 
admiring  comrades,  the  same  proud  front  and  ordered 
array  was  observed,  until  the  notes  of  their  fifes  grow- 
ing fainter  in  distance,  the  forest  at  length  appeared 
to  swallow  up  the  living  mass  which  had  slowly  entered 
its  bosom. 

The  deepest  sounds  of  the  retiring  and  invisible 
column  had  ceased  to  be  borne  on  the  breeze  to  the 
listeners,  and  the  latest  straggler  had  already  disap- 
peared in  pursuit ;  but  there  still  remained  the  signs  of 
another  departure,  before  a  log  cabin  of  unusual  size 
and  accommodations,  in  front  of  which  those  sentinels 
paced  their  rounds,  who  were  known  to  guard  the 
person  of  the  English  general.  At  this  spot  were  gath- 
ered some  half  dozen  horses,  caparisoned  in  a  manner 
which  showed  that  two,  at  least,  were  destined  to  bear 
the  persons  of  females,  of  a  rank  that  it  was  not  usual 
to  meet  so  far  in  the  wilds  of  the  country.  A  third 
wore  the  trappings  and  arms  of  an  officer  of  the  staff ; 
while  the  rest,  from  the  plainness  of  the  housings,  and 
the  traveling  mails  with  which  they  were  encumbered, 
were  evidently  fitted  for  the  reception  of  as  many 
menials,  who  were,  seemingly,  already  awaiting  the 
pleasure  of  those  they  served.  At  a  respectful  distance 
from  this  unusual  show  were  gathered  divers  groups  of 
curious  idlers;  some  admiring  the  blood  and  bone  of 
the  high-mettled  military  charger,  and  others  gnziiig  at 
the  preparations,  with  the  dull  wonder  of  vulgar  curi- 
osity. There  was  one  man,  however,  who,  by  his-  coun- 
tenance and  actions,  formed  a  marked  exception  to 
those  who  composed  the  latter  class  of  spectators,  being 
neither  idle,  nor  seemingly  very  ignorant. 


CHAPTER  V 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  the  history  of  American  authors  there 
probably  not  been  a  life  of  more  pathetic  interest 
than  that  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Indeed,  misfortune 
scc'ins  to  have  pursued  him  to  his  grave;  and  even 
after  his  death  his  memory  was  unmercifully  tra- 
duced. Griswold's  spiteful  and  vicious  attack  in 
the  memoir  prefixed  to  his  edition  of  Poe's  works 
set  the  fashion,  which,  except  in  rare  instances,  has 
been  followed  somewhat  blindly.  But  here  and 
there  a  few  brave  writers  have  dared  to  offer  a  word 
in  defence,  and  to  state  the  facts,  even  at  the  risk 
of  being  voted  biased  and  narrow  of  view.  Some 
essayists,  however,  emboldened  by  these  sporadic 
efforts,  have  recoiled  to  the  other  extreme,  and  by 
their  unbounded  admiration  of  everything  that 
came  from  Poe's  pen  have  done  his  cause  quite  as 
much  harm  as  those  who  shamefully  defame  him. 
Needless  to  say,  somewhere  between  these  two  ex- 
tremes lies  the  region  of  truth.  Wholesome  advice 
is  contained  in  the  maxim  Ne  quid  nimis;  and  this 
motto  will  furnish  us  a  safe  guide  in  literary  as  well 
as  in  political  controversies. 

It  is  wellnigh  impossible  to  give  a  just  and  cor- 
rect estimate  of  an  author  either  during  his  life  or 
i  in  mediately  after  his  death.  Proximity  to  a  beau- 
tiful landscape  distorts  our  view,  and  prevents  our 
receiving  a  correct  and  adequate  impression  of  its 
beauty.  We  must  get  the  proper  perspective  and 
view  the  landscape  from  a  point  not  too  near,  on 


104  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  one  hand,  or  too  remote,  on  the  other.  Surely, 
then,  after  the  lapse  of  half  a  century  we  may  turn 
our  glass  upon  Poe,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  a  fairer 
and  more  adequate  view  of  the  author's  genius  than 
was  possible  on  the  part  of  his  contemporaries. 

Poe's  detractors  have  indicted  him  on  the  charge 
of  gross  immorality.  To  be  more  specific,  they 
have  said  that  he  was  an  habitual  drunkard,  an 
ingrate,  a  scoffer,  and  a  libertine.  Now,  it  is  not 
the  purpose  of  this  paper  to  defend  Poe  against  the 
charge  of  occasional  drunkenness.  Not  even  his 
most  ardent  admirers,  unless  so  utterly  biased  as 
to  be  incapable  of  appreciating  an  established  fact, 
Avould  presumably  attempt  to  exonerate  him  from 
this  accusation.  But  while  it  is  true  that  Poe  in- 
dulged all  too  freely  his  convivial  passion,  it  is 
equally  true  that  he  endeavored  to  abstain,  and  that 
he  actually  did  abstain,  from  such  indulgence  some- 
times for  several  months  in  succession.  Like  many 
others,  however,  he  had  been  reared  in  a  household 
where  liberal  potations  seem  to  have  been  encour- 
aged, or,  at  all  events,  not  forbidden.  Poe,  unfor- 
tunately, inherited  from  his  parents,  who  were 
stage  people,  a  lack  of  self-control;  and  it  was 
against  this  inherited  weakness  and  deficiency  in 
will-power  that  he  fought  with  varying  success  and 
failure  all  his  mature  years,  until  at  last  he  yielded 
and  sank  down  in  utter  despair. 

Little  need  be  said  in  reply  to  the  other  specific 
charges.  The  conviction  has  grown  upon  us,  after 
a  careful  study  of  his  life  and  works,  that,  although 
at  times  he  seemed  to  show  but  scant  appreciation 
of  the  kindnesses  bestowed  upon  him  by  some  of  his 
friends,  Poe  nevertheless  was  not  an  ingrate.  He 
had  many  friends,  who,  when  after  his  death  an 
attempt  was  made  by  his  enemies  to  plant  thorns 


I:IH;AU  ALLAN   i»oi<;  105 

upon  his  grave,  interposed  and  themselves  planted 
roses  there.  We  do  not  believe  Poe  was  a  scoffer. 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  do  we  think  that  he  had  any 
deep  and  abiding  religious  convictions,  or  that  he 
ever  drew  much  comfort  from  his  religion.  In  ref- 
erence to  the  last  count  in  the  indictment,  we  feel, 
after  reading  his  biography,  that  few  men  have  ever 
proved  more  devoted  and  faithful  husbands  than 
did  Poe  to  his  beautiful  but  frail  Virginia.  Upon 
the  evidence  of  Mrs.  Clemm,  Poe's  mother-in-law, 
his  conjugal  relations  were  entirely  free  from  every 
discordant  element;  and  his  untiring  devotion  to 
his  wife  in  her  last  lingering  illness  was  as  beauti- 
ful as  it  was  pathetic.  Moreover,  there  is  not  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  immorality  in  any  poem  or 
story  which  Poe  wrote.  His  works  are  as  chaste  as 
an  icicle.  This  is  far  more  than  can  be  said  of 
much  of  our  present-day  fiction. 

Poe's  biographers  are  not  agreed  as  to  some  of 
the  events  in  his  life.  Much  of  the  uncertainty 
concerning  him  is  to  be  charged  to  Poe  himself,  for 
his  own  autobiographical  statements  were  not 
always  consistent,  and  these  discrepancies  he  never 
satisfactorily  explained.  Yet  his  recent  biogra- 
phers, especially  Woodberry  and  Harrison,  by  dili- 
gent and  thorough  investigation,  have  cleared  up  a 
number  of  points  in  his  life  which  before  were  in 
dispute. 

Poe  was  born  in  Boston,  January  19,  1809.  On 
his  father's  side  he  traced  his  ancestry  back  to  an 
Italian  family  of  the  tenth  century  that  had  settled 
in  Normandy  and  that  later  removed,  successively, 
to  England,  Wales  and  Ireland.  But  Edgar's  im- 
mediate ancestors  on  the  spear  side  of  the  house 
had  settled  in  Maryland,  while  on  the  spindle  side 
they  were  still  English.  His  father  was  David  Poe 


106  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

and  his  mother  Elizabeth  Arnold,  both  of  whom 
followed  the  stage  as  a  profession.  They  were 
filling  an  engagement  at  the  Federal  Street,  Thea- 
tre, Boston,  when  Edgar  was  born.  The  parents 
both  died  before  Edgar  was  two  years  old,  and  the 
boy  with  an  elder  brother  and  a  younger  sister  were 
left  objects  of  charity  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  where 
the  family  had  been  strailded.  Edgar  was  adopted 
by  Mr.  John  Allan,  a  wealthy  tobacconist  of  Rich- 
mond, whose  wife  took  a  fancy  to  the  bright  child, 
and  he  was  reared  in  comfort  and  affluence.  In 
1815  the  Allans  visited  England,  taking  young 
Edgar  with  them,  and  they  remained  there  for  five 
years  and  put  Edgar  to  school  at  Stoke  Newington. 
When  the  family  returned  to  Richmond,  Edgar  was 
sent  to  a  local  academy,  where  he  attained  profi- 
ciency in  languages  and  exhibited  special  aptitude 
for  verse-writing.  He  also  showed  considerable 
fondness  for  outdoor  exercises  and  was  recognized 
as  a  good  athlete. 

In  February,  1826,  Poe  matriculated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  recently  founded,  and  there  he 
made  satisfactory  progress  in  his  studies.  But  he 
was  there  associated,  unfortunately,  with  many 
dissipated  students  and  himself  lost  heavy  sums  of 
money  at  cards,  thereby  incurring  considerable 
debts.  These  his  god-father  refused  flatly  to  pay 
and,  moreover,  summarily  removed  young  Toe  from 
the  institution.  Edgar  then  returned  to  Richmond, 
smarting  under  his  disgrace  chiefly  because  he  was 
thus  forced  to  leave  his  debts  of  honor  unpaid,  and 
was  placed  in  Mr.  Allan's  counting-room.  lint  this 
prosaic  occupation  proved  altogether  uncongenial 
to  the  prospective  poet,  as  was  (o  be  expected;  and 
so  resenting  such  treatment,  he  deserted  his  foster- 


EDGAK    ALLAN    POE  107 

father's  roof  and  shook  the  dust  of  Richmond  from 
his  foot,  to  inako  his  own  way  in  the  cold  world. 

^Yo  next  find  Poe  in  Boston,  where  on  May  26, 
lSi'7,  under  an  assumed  name — E.  A.  Perry — he  en- 
listed in  the  United  States  Army.  However,  dur- 
ing his  sojourn  in  Boston  he  published  anonymously 
his  first  volume  of  poetry,  "Tamerlane  and  Other 
Poems."  In  the  autumn  he  was  transferred  to 
Fort  Moultrie,  South  Carolina,  and  later  to 
Fortress  Monroe,  Virginia.  It  was  while  he  was 
sorving  at  this  last-named  post  that  a  reconciliation 
was  effected  with  Mr.  Allan,  who  provided  a  substi- 
tute for  his  errant  foster-son  and  secured  him  a 
cadet  appointment  at  West  Point.  Young  Poe 
entered  the  Academy  July  1,  1830,  but  the  rigid 
discipline  of  that  renowned  institute  was  far  too 
exacting  for  so  restless  and  wayward  a  youth  as 
Poe,  who  chafed  under  its  martinet  life.  He  de- 
sired to  resign,  but  Mr.  Allan  would  not  consent  to 
this ;  so  he  wilfully  neglected  his  duties,  in  order  to 
facilitate  his  early  dismissal,  which  occurred  in 
January,  1831. 

Poe  thereupon  made  his  way  to  New  York  and 
published  a  second  volume  of  verse,  entitling  it  sim- 
ply "Poems,"  in  which  he  included  "Israfel"  and 
"To  Helen."  He  had  previously  published  (in 
1829,  while  in  the  army)  an  acknowledged  volume 
of  verse,  "Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems," 
which  was  an  enlargement  of  his  maiden  volume. 
But  neither  of  these  ventures  had  proved  a  financial 
success,  and  their  author  perhaps  experienced  some 
foreboding  and  disquietude  as  to  his  resolution  to 
live  by  his  pen.  For  even  down  to  the  Civil  War  a 
purely  literary  career  in  America  gave  assurance  of 
extremely  meager  support  and  promised  to  the  man 
wholly  relying  upon  his  pen  for  his  daily  bread  only 


108  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  proverbial  Grub  Street  comforts  of  life.  How- 
ever fine  his  writings,  Poe  had  no  reason,  therefore, 
to  expect  to  live  in  affluence  upon  the  receipts  from 
his  royalty.  Furthermore,  all  hope  of  aid  from  his 
foster-father  had  been  abandoned  now  that  Mr. 
Allan  had  married  again  and  had  utterly  broken 
with  him.  Yet  Poe  had  to  his  credit  experience, 
industry,  culture  and  genius, — qualities  which  or- 
dinarily go  a  long  way  to  make  for  success  in  this 
life.  On  the  other  hand,  and  as  an  offset  to  these, 
Poe  had  developed  as  well  as  inherited  moral  weak- 
ness, extreme  sensitiveness,  an  excitable  and  nerv- 
ous temperament  and  surroundings  which  were  not 
propitious  to  his  temperament.  Possessed  of  these 
defects,  which  were  as  serious  as  his  qualities  were 
brilliant,  this  talented  young  Southerner  started  on 
what  ought  to  have  been  a  noble  career  with  a 
happy  end.  But  alas !  the  performance  of  a  life  too 
frequently  proves  unequal  to  the  promise. 

Poe  left  New  York  for  Baltimore,  where  he  took 
up  his  residence  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Clemm,  his 
father's  widowed  sister,  whose  beautiful,  but  frail 
daughter  Virginia  afterwards,  at  the  early  age  of 
fourteen,  became  his  bride.  Here  he  was  unable  to 
secure  steady  work,  and  amid  his  disappointments 
was  buoyed  up  by  the  encouraging  words  of  the 
angel  in  the  house,  his  beloved  Virginia.  He  re- 
ceived a  windfall  in  the  shape  of  a  prize  of  $100.00 
which  he  won  in  October,  1833,  by  his  story,  the 
"Manuscript  Found  in  a  Bottle."  His  poem,  "The 
Coliseum,7'  was  awarded  a  smaller  prize,  but  this 
had  to  be  waived  by  the  conditions  of  the  contest 
which  did  not  permit  the  same  author  to  carry  off 
both  prizes.  One  of  the  judges  was  John  P.  Ken- 
nedy, the  romancer,  who  thereupon  became  inter- 
ested in  the  promising  young  author,  and,  by  way 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  109 

of  befriending  him,  secured  for  him  a  congenial 
position  as  assist  ant  to  Thomas  W.  White,  proprie- 
tor of  the  newly  established  Southern  Literary  Mes- 
,vr;///(r.  Accordingly,  in  1834,  Poe  assumed  practi- 
cal control  of  this  famous  Richmond  journal,  to  the 
pjiges  of  which  he  contributed  some  of  his  cleverest 
stories  and  most  trenchant  critiques.  To  be  sure, 
his  literary  criticisms  were  sometimes  scathing  and 
drastic  enough,  almost  to  the  point  of  flaying  his 
victim.  Yet  this  severe  type  of  review  had  a  whole- 
some and  tonic  effect  in  an  age  when  provincial 
eulogy  on  the  one  hand,  or  fulsome  flattery  on  the 
other,  passed  for  real  literary  criticism. 

In  1837,  Poe's  bibulous  habits  cost  him  his  posi- 
tion with  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  he 
set  out  for  New  York  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  great 
metropolis.  There  he  was  unable  to  secure  suffi- 
cient work  to  maintain  himself;  and  so  Mrs. 
Clemm,  who  kept  house  for  him  and  his  wife,  sup- 
ported the  impecunious  author  by  taking  boarders. 
Meanwhile  Poe  wrote  and  published  his  longest 
story,  "The  Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym." 
Failing  to  secure  employment  in  New  York,  he 
moved  his  small  family  to  Philadelphia,  where  he 
was  offered  a  permanent  position  as  editor  of  Gra- 
ham's Muyazine,  with  the  opportunity  to  do  hack- 
work to  supplement  his  slender  salary.  Here  he 
managed  not  only  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door, 
but  to  live  in  comparative  comfort,  till  1842,  when 
his  besetting  vice  of  intemperance  forced  the  sever- 
ance of  his  connection  with  Graham's  Magazine. 
Much  of  his  best  work  was  done  during  his  resi- 
dence in  Philadelphia,  and  to  this  period  in  his 
career  we  must  assign  his  "Tales  of  the  Grotesque 
and  Arabesque,"  published  in  the  collection  of 
1839;  "Ligeia,"  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher," 


110  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  and  "The  Gold 
Bug,"  the  setting  of  which  last, story  is  a  reminis- 
cence of  his  army  days  at  Fort  Moultrie. 

In  1844,  Poe  again  settled  in  New  York,  where 
fortune  had  already  dealt  with  him  so  harshly  be- 
fore. But  this  time  she  relented  somewhat.  He 
secured  an  appointment  on  the  staff  of  some  of  the 
newspapers,  and  in  January,  1845,  he  contributed  to 
The  Evening  Mirror  his  immortal  "Haven,"  which 
greatly  enhanced  his  reputation  as  a  poet  with  the 
general  public  and  heralded  his  name  abroad 
throughout  the  land.  After  this  he  was  connected 
with  The  Broadway  Journal  under  the  management 
of  Charles  F.  Briggs,  but  a  quarrel  ensuing,  Briggs 
retired  and  Poe  assumed  entire  control,  only  to  run 
the  periodical  in  the  ground  within  a  year.  Poe 
also  signalized  the  year  1845  by  issuing  an  edition 
of  his  collected  poems  with  the  "Raven,"  which  had 
spread  his  fame  far  and  wide,  as  leader.  In  1846, 
he  removed  to  Fordham,  where  a  chapter  of  misfor- 
tunes followed,  culminating  in  the  death,  toward 
the  end  of  1847,  of  his  devoted  wife,  who  was  the  in- 
spiration of  his  life.  Dire  want  and  acute  suffering- 
marked  his  ill-fated  days  at  Fordham. 

After  the  death  of  his  fair  young  wife  Poe  ap- 
:  pears  to  have  lost  heart,  and  from  that  time  on,  his 
course  was  one  of  gradual  moral  deterioration  till 
the  tragic  end  came.  True,  he  had  a  few  fitful  sea- 
sons of  moral  reformation  and  creative  impulse, 
but  these  were  only  temporary, — brief  intervals, 
when  by  extraordinary  exertion  of  his  enfeebled 
volition  he  strove  to  pull  himself  together  again  and 
work  with  his  wonted  interest  and  zest.  During 
these  intervals  when  he  was  himself  and  had  his 
evil  genius  under  control,  he  produced  such  work 
as  "Eureka,"  "Ulalume,"  "Annabel  Lee"  and  "The 


EDGAR   ALLAN    I'<n;  111 

Bells,"  in  which  he  married  music  i<>  poetry  in  a 
manner  as  marvelous  as  it  was  unprecedented.  In 
his  brave  struggle  he  sought  feminine  sympathy, 
which  apparently  never  failed  to  stimulate  him  to 
his  best  effort  and  to  brace  him  up  morally.  In- 
deed, it  was  a  mission  of  this  kind  that  brought  him 
to  Richmond  in  the  early  autumn  of  1849,  to  ar- 
range for  his  wedding  with  an  old  sweetheart.  On 
his  way  North  to  complete  his  plans  for  the  wed- 
ding he  stopped  over  in  Baltimore  where  he  fell 
victim  to  his  fatal  moral  weakness,  and  died  on  a 
drunken  debauch,  Sunday  morning,  October  7, — a 
pitiable  outcast.  He  was  buried  in  that  city  in  the 
Westminster  churchyard,  where  some  years  later 
a  monument  was  erected  over  his  grave  by  the 
children  of  the  local  public  schools. 

Poe's  irregularities  and  intemperate  habits  and 
irritable  disposition  all  combined  to  make  him  a 
great  many  enemies.  Moreover,  his  lack  of  poise  and 
his  whims  and  fancies  led  him  frequently  into  error 
in  his  literary  criticism,  as  for  instance,  his  savage 
attack  upon  Longfellow,  to  cite  only  a  single  case  in 
point.    Of  course  this  naturally  brought  about  a  re- 
action which  prejudiced  many  against  Poe,  and  his 
detractors  have  sought  to  malign  him  and  to  under- 
rate his  works.    The  New  England  school  of  critic^ 
specially  strove  to  decry  his  influence  and  to  bring  i 
his  writings  into  disrepute,  chiefly  because  the  lead- 
ers  of  that  school  could   not  dissociate   literature! 
from  morality.     They  rejected  Poe's  artistic  prin-J 
ciples  because  his  life  failed  to  measure  up  to  the| 
Puritan  standard  of  morality. 

So  much  for  Poe,  the  man.  It  is  now  time  to  con- 
sider Poe,  the  author. 

Poe's  genius    may  be  considered  in  a   threefold 
aspect.    He  may  be  regarded  as  a  critic,  as  a  poet, 


112  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

and  as  a  romancer.  In  each  of  these  realms  Poe 
attained  to  eminence;  but  it  is  mainly  in  the  last 
two  aspects  that  we  wish  especially  to  consider  him 
now.  We  need  hardly  say  that  we  do  not  intend 
by  this  to  imply  any  disparagement  of  his  critical 
genius.  On  the  contrary,  Poe,  in  our  judgment,  is 
rightly  entitled  to  the  distinction  of  being  the  first 
American  man  of  letters  to  write  criticism  deserv- 
ing the  name.  Before  his  advent  into  journalism 
criticism  had  been  but  little  better  than  fulsome 
flattery.  After  his  appearance  journalistic  criti- 
cism entered  upon  a  new  era.  His  reviews,  though 
frequently  drastic,  and  sometimes  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted inspired  by  personal  prejudice,  had,  never- 
theless, a  wholesome  and  stimulating  effect  upon 
American  authorship.  His  "Marginalia"  awakened 
a  sense  of  injustice  and  resentment  in  the  breasts  of 
the  more  virile,  and  struck  sheer  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  the  weaklings.  Mr.  Stedman  justly  calls  his 
sketches  "a  prose  Dunciad,  waspish  and  unfair,  yet 
not  without  touches  of  magnanimity."  It  has  been 
truly  observed  that  whenever  Poe,  unbiased  by  per- 
sonal motives,  pronounced  favorably  upon  the  tal- 
ents of  an  author,  such  as  Bayard  Taylor,  Mrs, 
Browning,  or  Tennyson,  his  judgments  have  been 
sustained  by  the  verdict  of  the  present  generation. 
But  his  prejudice  made  him  merciless  and  unrelent- 
ing to  the  New  England  poets,  as  a  class.  Accord- 
ing to  his  view  nothing  good  or  beautiful  could  come 
out  of  the  Nazareth  of  Boston.  It  need  hardly  be 
remarked  that  the  present  generation  has,  in  many 
instances,  reversed  Poe's  critical  dicta. 

But  enough  of  Poe  as  a  critic.  Let  us  now  take 
up  his  poetry.  In  his  masterly  essay  on  Thomas 
Gray,  Matthew  Arnold  says  of  that  writer  that  his 
whole  history  as  a  poet  is  contained  in  a  remark, 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  113 

made  by  an  appreciative  friend,  to  the  effect  that 
"he  never  spoke  out  in  poetry."  The  same  remark  is 
equally  applicable  to  Poe;  for  it  is  a  common  feel-  v  ; 
ing,  shared  alike  by  the  present  generation  and  by 
his  contemporaries,  that  he  never  really  gave  com- 
plete utterance  to  the  poetry  which  kindled  his  im- 
agination and  stirred  his  soul. 

Poe  was  not  a  prolific  writer.  All  the  poetry  he 
ever  published  could  be  pressed  between  the  covers 
of  a  very  slender  book.  But  volume  is  not  the  only, 
or  even  the  main,  criterion  in  determining  the 
standing  of  a  poet.  Indeed,  it  is  rather  an  insignifi- 
cant factor.  In  the  determination  of  a  poet's  stand- 
ing, spontaneity  and  passion,  not  volume,  are  the 
criteria.  "Poetry,"  says  Poe,  in  the  preface  to  his 
juvenile  productions  "has  been  with  me  a  passion, 
not  a  purpose."  Still,  we  heartily  wish  that  he  had 
written  more  of  purpose,  though  no  less  of  passion. 

It  must  be  conceded  that  Poe's  range  of  subject — 
his  register,  to  borrow  a  musical  term — was  quite 
narrow.  In  his  youth,  as  a  critic  has  observed,  he 
struck  the  key-notes  of  a  few  themes ;  and  the  output 
of  his  mature  years  was  but  a  variation  on  these. 
The  death,  in  his  youth,  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  was 
devoted  made  a  profound  impression  upon  his  sus- 
ceptible heart,  and  filled  his  soul  with  a  poignant  1 
feeling  of  sadness  and  of  longing  for  one  far  remov-  IH  "J 
ed  from  human  companionship  and  beyond  recall.  ' 
This  henceforth  was  to  be  the  inspiration  of  his 
genius  and  the  burden  of  his  song.  Says  Mr. 
Edmund  Grosse,  the  eminent  English  critic,  himself 
no  mean  poet:  "If  Poe  had  not  harped  so  persist- 
ently on  his  one  theme  of  remorseful  passion  for  the 
irrevocable  dead,  if  he  had  employed  his  extraordi- 
nary, his  unparalleled  gifts  of  melodius  invention, 


114  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

with  equal  skill,  in  illustrating  a  variety  of  themes, 
he  must  have  been  with  the  greatest  poets." 

Poe's  best-known  poems,  those  upon  which  his 
fame  as  a  poet  rests,  are  "The  Raven,"  first  of  all, 
"The  Bells,"  "For  Annie,"  "Ulalume,"  "The  City  in 
the  Sea,"  "The  Haunted  Palace,"  and  "The  Con- 
queror Worm."  Of  these  "The  Kaven,"  written  in 
1845,  is  by  far  the  most  widely  known,  and  deserv- 
edly the  most  popular.  With  its  publication  Poe,  like 
Byron  with  the  publication  of  "Childe  Harold," 
leaped  immediately  into  fame.  His  manuscript 
articles  which,  up  to  this  time,  editors  had  kept  in 
dark  pigeon-holes  were  now  brought  to  the  light  of 
day,  and  were  greatly  in  request;  and  enterprising 
magazines  were  eager  to  announce,  as  a  special  at- 
traction, a  new  poem  by  the  author  of  "The  Raven." 
The  instant  success  of  this  production  provoked  a 
new  edition  of  Poe's  writings,  which  appeared 
toward  the  end  of  the  year  1845,  under  the  title, 
"The  Raven  and  Other  Poems."  This  volume  con- 
tained wellnigh  all  the  verse  Poe  had  ever  written. 
The  early  poems  had  undergone  alterations  more  or 
less  slight,  in  accordance  with  the  author's  fashion 
of  recasting  and  republishing  his  early  work  as  if  it 
were  appearing  for  the  first  time. 

In  view  of  the  popularity  of  "The  Raven"  and  of 
its  importance  as  being  Poe's  greatest  poem,  it  will 
not  be  out  of  place  to  linger  over  it  for  a  while  and 
notice  it  somewhat  in  detail.  In  his  "Philosophy 
of  Composition,"  Poe  gives  a  detailed  account  of  his 
method  of  composing  "The  Raven"  and  of  its  motif; 
and  the  story  has  such  a  rniixcinhlinicc  and  such  a 
posiliveness  about  it  as  almost  to  compel  belief. 
Moreover,  the  author's  peculiar  views,  which  he  set 
forth  elsewhere,  in  respect  of  the  poetic  principle 
are  involved  in  the  account;  and  he  uses  "The 


KIM.AR    ALLAN    POE  115 

Raven"  to  illustrate  his  theory  as  to  the  aim  and 
scope  of  poetry. 

Poe  believed,  with  Coleridge,  that  the  pleasure 
arising  from  the  contemplation  of  beauty  is  keener, 
more  chaste,  and  more  elevating  to  the  soul  than 
that  which  springs  from  the  contemplation  of  truth 
by  the  mere  intellect,  or  even  than  that  which 
springs  from  any  passion  of  the  heart.  He  main- 
tained, further,  that  it  is  through  this  sentiment  of 
beauty  that  man  acquires  his  clearest  conceptions 
of  eternal  nature,  and  is  consequently  brought  into 
closest  touch  with  the  divine.  This  subtle  power 
exists  in  the  beauty  of  nature,  which  inspires  man.r 
with  a  belief  in  something  beyond  nature,  fairer  and 
more  beautiful  still,  to  be  discerned  only  by  the  im- 
agination. It  is  the  province  of  art  to  fashion  this 
ideal  beauty  for  the  gratification  of  man's  spiritual 
emotion.  This  is  the  end  and  aim  of  all  the  fine  arts, 
but  more  especially  of  the  crowning  arts  of  music 
and  poetry.  The  incitements  of  passion,  the  pre- 
cepts of  duty,  and  even  the  lessons  of  truth  are  in- 
cluded ;  but  they  must  be  subordinated  to  the  main 
point  of  the  contemplation  of  beauty.  It  follows, 
therefore,  that  beauty  is  the  sole  legitimate  theme 


^f  poetry;  and  so  Poe  defined  poetry  as  "the  rhyth- 

niical  creation  of  beauty." 

However,  Poe  in  his  definition  did  not  take  the 
term  beauty  in  its  widest  and  broadest  sense,  which 
would  include  all  truth,  emotion,  and  ethics.  On 
the  contrary,  he  restricted  the  term  to  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  supernal  beauty,  that  is,  the  domain 
of  sadness  and  regret.  He  regarded  a  beautiful 
woman  as  the  very  quintessence  of  beauty,  and  the 
death  of  such  a  woman  as  the  most  poetical  theme 
in  the  world.  This  is  the  motif  and  inspiration  of 
"The  Raven."  On  the  general  principle  that  vice 


116  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

can  never  be  beautiful,  of  course  nothing  base  or 
degrading  could  legitimately  fall  within  the  prov- 
ince of  poetry. 

As  a  minor  consideration  Poe  insisted  that,  from 
the  very  nature  of  our  mental  constitution,  it  is  ne- 
cessary that  a  poem  be  brief  and  aim  at  a  single 
artistic  effect,  since  the  undivided  attention  cannot 
be  held  for  several  consecutive  hours  by  one  subject. 
This  canon,  however,  was  inspired  by  Schleg- 
el?s  dictum  of  the  unity  or  totality  of  inter- 
est. Such  a  long  poem  as  the  "Iliad,"  the 
"Odyssey,"  or  "Paradise  Lost,"  according  to  Poe's 
theory,  depends  for  its  interest  and  effect  upon  the 
various  briefer  incidents  or  poems  which  go  to  make 
it  up.  When  we  read  a  poem  of  great  length  the 
attention  naturally  relaxes  at  intervals;  and,  since 
the  interest  is  not  sustained  throughout,  the  poem 
fails  to  produce  a  single  artistic  effect.  Further- 
more, Poe  maintained  that,  in  order  for  a  poem  to 
produce  a  characteristic  effect,  it  should  possess  a 
distinct  rhythm  or  metre,  together  with  a  certain 
grotesqueness  of  conception  and  quaintness  of  lan- 
guage. Now,  all  these  conditions,  Poe  claimed, 
were  met  in  "The  Raven"  in  particular,  and  in  his 
other  poems  in  general.  For  in  the  former  we  find 
as  the  motif  of  the  poem  the  death  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  Lenore;  the  unique  refrain  "Nevermore;" 
a  certain  grotesqueness  of  conception  in  the  setting ; 
and  an  air  of  quaintness  about  the  language. 

Like  Lanier,  another  Southern  singer  whose 
career  offers  almost  as  many  pathetic  incidents,  Poe 
was  endowed  by  nature  with  a  keen  appreciation  of 
i'li vt Inn  and  music. ~\J3.e  was  preeminently  a  melo- 
dist; and,  what  is  more,  the  melody  of  his  verse  has 
not  been  equalled  in  the  history  of  American  litera- 
ture, and  is  not  surpassed  by  any  British  poet.  But, 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  117 

as  has  been  already  stated,  his  register  was  not 
wide.  Within  a  limited  range  he  could  and  did 
achieve  remarkable  results,  as  in  the  refrain  of  "The 
Bells"  or  "The  Raven."  The  musical  effect  of  the 
ballad  of  either  of  these  poems  was,  up  to  the  time 
of  their  publication,  unequalled,  and  it  has  not  been 
surpassed  since.  Poe,  with  a  few  choice  words,  like 
Paganini  with  his  simple  violin,  produced  a  spell 
which  was  truly  marvellous.  It  is  said  of  the  great 
musician  that  such  was  his  control  of  his  instru- 
ment, and  such  his  perfection  of  technique,  that  in 
every  part  of  musical  Europe  even  with  his  very 
first  notes  he  held  vast  audiences  spell-bound.  It 
may  be  said  of  Poe  that  such  was  his  intuitive  sense 
of  beauty,  and  such  the  melody  of  his  verse,  that  he 
arrested  the  reluctant  attention  of  the  reading  pub- 
lic of  the  two  English-speaking  nations,  and  by  his 
haunting  music  cast  a  glamour  over  their  poets 
which  none  of  them,  after  repeated  efforts,  has  ever 
since  succeeded  in  reproducing.  Mr.  Gosse  tells  us 
that  Poe  has  proved  himself  to  be  the  Piper  of  Ham- 
elm  to  all  later  English  poets,  of  whom  there  is 
hardly  one  whose  verse  music  does  not  show  traces 
of  his  influence.  Surely,  it  is  no  small  distinction 
thus  to  have  stamped  the  impress  of  one's  own  gen- 
ius for  melodious  verse  upon  the  succeeding  genera- 
tion of  English  poets,  and  that,  too,  of  the  Victo- 
rian era. 

Poe  is  sometimes  called  a  poet  of  one  poem ;  and 
the  criticism  is  not  altogether  unjust.  For  to  the 
world  at  large  he  is  generally  known  as  the  author 
of  "The  Raven."  We  think  Mr.  Stedman  comes 
nearer  the  truth,  however,  when  in  an  epigrammatic 
sent  once  he  says :  "Poe  was  not  a  single-poem  poet, 
but  a  poet  of  a  single  mood."  The  theme  is  the  same 
in  almost  all  his  poems,  namely,  ruin.  This  is  the 


118  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

burden  of  his  song;  this  is  the  one  poetic  subject 
that  always  kindled  his  imagination.  To  be  sure, 
the  treatment  varies,  as  might  be  expected ;  but  the 
inspiration  of  his  poetry  is  almost  invariably  drawn 
from  this  one  source.  "Israfel"  furnishes  an  excep- 
tion, but  it  is  an  exception  which  proves  the  rule. 

This  is  Poe's  greatest  limitation;  and  a  serious 
limitation  it  certainly  is.  It  undermines  the  foun- 
dation of  his  claim  to  being  regarded  a  great  poet, 
in  the  sense  that  English  poets  like  Milton,  Dryden, 
Byron,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  many  others 
that  might  be  named  are  entitled  to  rank  as  great 
poets.  Poe,  in  our  judgment,  is  an  artist  in  verse; 
a  great  artist,  indeed,  but  hardly  a  great  poet.  It  is 
true  that  he  possesses  "originality  in  the  treatment 
of  themes,  perennial  charm,  exquisite  finish  in  exe- 
cution, and  distinction  of  individual  manner" — ele- 
ments of  poetical  greatness  as  set  forth  by  an  emi- 
nent English  essayist  and  critic — but  he  lacks,  it 
seems  to  us,  one  of  the  qualifications  needed  to  en- 
title him  to  rank  with  the  great  poets.  His  fatal 
defect  is  his  narrowness  of  range.  "The  Kaven"  may 
wing  its  ceaseless  flight  through  anthologies,  and  be 
admired  by  generations  yet  unborn ;  but  this  alone 
does  not  make  its  author  a  great  poet  any  more  than 
the  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard"  en- 
titles Gray  to  rank  with  the  world's  great  poets. 
However,  although  this  Southern  poet  may  fail  of 
the  distinction  of  being  entitled  to  rest  in  the  Val- 
halla of  the  world's  great  poets,  yet  in  our  opinion, 
he  justly  deserves  to  rank  with  the  greatest  Ameri- 
can poets,  if,  indeed,  he  is  not  the  very  greatest 
among  them. 

But  it  is  time  for  us  to  consider  our  author  in  the 
aspect  of  romance.  Dearly  as  lie  loved  iJ,  poetry 
was  never  a  serious  purpose  with  Poe,  as  he  himself 


EDGAR  ALLAN   l'<n;  119 

informed  the  reading  public  in  his  youthful  preface. 
It  was  upon  his  prose  romance  and  his  critical  work 
that  he  relied  to  establish  his  fame.  Upon  these  he 
was  willing  to  stake  his  claim  to  immortality.  It 
ought  to  be  remarked  here,  however,  that  it  was 
more  especially  in  the  province  of  romance  that  he 
exhibited,  in  the  highest  degree,  his  intellectual 
force — his  vigorous  imagination  and  his  acute  ana- 
lytical powers.  He  has  handed  down  his  name  to 
the  present  generation  as  the  founder  of  the  school 
of  writers,  now  so  popular,  who  practise  the  short 
story.  He  also  deserves  the  distinction  of  being  the 
founder  of  the  modern  detective  story  and  the  mod- 
ern sea  story.  Dr.  A.  Conan  Doyle,  whether  he 
acknowledges  it  or  not,  must  be  classed  as  a  disciple 
of  Poe ;  for  his  "Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes"  is 
but  the  method  of  Poe  carried  to  its  logical  conclu- 
sion. 

Poe's  power  developed  early.  Indeed,  his  genius 
may  be  called  precocious.  Some  of  his  early  stories 
were  among  his  best,  and  were  hardly  surpassed  in 
his  mature  years.  His  earliest  effort,  "A  MS.  Found 
in  a  Bottle/7  exhibits  practically  the  same  distinc- 
tive qualities  as  appear  in  the  flower  of  his  work. 
The  difference  is  one  of  degree,  not  of  kind.  That 
was  a  suggestive  comment  made  by  Kennedy,  to  / 
whom  young  Poe  submitted  his  maiden  manuscript  t  / 
"The  young  fellow  is  highly  imaginative,  and  a  lit- 
tle given  to  the  terrific."  And  the  criticism  is  just; 
for  there  is  no  story  written  by  Poe  which  is  not 
more  or  less  grotesque,  and  which  does  not  give  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  the  author's  rare  gift  of 
imagination. 

His  stories  naturally  divide  themselves  into  two 
classes :  first,  the  analytical  tales,  dealing  with  the 
grotesque  and  the  terrible;  and,  secondly,  the  spec- 


120  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ulativc  talcs,  dealing  with  the  weird  and  the  super- 
natural. Examples  of  the  former  class  are  "The 
Black  Cat,"  "The  Gold  Bug,"  "The  Tell-Tale  Heart," 
and  "The  Murders  in  the  Kue  Morgue;"  examples 
of  the  latter  are  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher," 
"Ligeia,"  "A  Tale  of  the  Ragged  Mountains,"  and 
"William  Wilson."  The  latter  class  constitutes  the 
author's  earlier  work  in  fiction.  In  the  tales  of  this 
class  Poe  gradually  worked  up  to  a  denouement 
through  a  complicated  series  of  facts  and  incidents. 
In  the  tales  of  the  former  group,  starting  with  the 
denouement,  he  gradually  unravelled  the  plot  by  his 
ratiocinative  method  until  he  worked  his  way,  inci- 
dent by  incident,  back  to  the  very  beginning.  The 
end  aimed  at  is  different,  as  well  as  the  starting- 
point.  In  the  imaginative  group  it  is  the  emotional 
element  which  is  emphasized ;  whereas  in  the  ratio- 
cinative group  the  solution  of  the  mystery  is  all  im- 
portant, and  the  attention  is  accordingly  focused 
upon  the  incidents  leading  up  to  this  mystery.  In 
both  classes  of  tales  Poe  showed  his  inventive 
genius,  his  rare  imagination,  and  his  subtle  artistic 
power  in  the  selection  and  in  the  grouping  of  the 
facts — this  last  especially  in  the  ratiocinative  tales. 
The  following  paragraph  is  interesting  as  setting 
forth  in  the  author's  own  words  the  aim  which  he 
sought  and  the  method  which  he  followed  in  the 
construction  of  his  tales  : 

A  skillful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If 
wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommo- 
date his  incidents ;  but  having  conceived,  with  deliber- 
ate care,  a  certain  unique  or  single  effect  to  be  wrought 
out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents-  -he  then  roml'ines 
such  events  as  ni;iy  best  aid  in  establishing  tin's  precon- 
ceived effort.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend  not  to 
the  out-bringing  of  this  eil'ect,  then  he  has  failed  in  his 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  121 

first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there  should  be 
no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or  in- 
direct, is  not  to  the  one  preestablished  design.  And: 
by  such  means,  with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture  is  at 
length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind  of  him  who 
contemplates  it,  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense  of  the 
fullest  satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  pre- 
sented unblemished,  because  undisturbed;  and  this  is 
an  end  unattainable  by  the  novel. 

In  all  Poe's  stories,  subtly  conceived  and  cleverly 
and  exquisitely  executed  as  some  of  them  incon- 
testably  are,  there  is  no  one  character  that  has 
taken  hold  of  the  affections  or  that  really  lives. 
Poe  never  painted  a  single  live  character.  Though 
a  consummate  artist,  he  yet  lacked  that  subtle 
power  of  characterization  which  Thackeray  exhib- 
ited, in  so  eminent  a  degree,  in  the  creation  of  his 
immortal  Becky  Sharp,  and  Dickens  in  the  creation 
of  his  equally  famous  Sam  Weller.  These  charac- 
ters are  as  well  known  as  if  they  had  been  real  flesh 
and  blood,  and  will  doubtless  continue  to  live  in  the 
affections  of  the  people  as  long  as  English  litera- 
ture lives.  But  we  search  in  vain  in  Poe's  fiction 
for  any  counterpart  to  the  tactful,  impudent  Becky 
Sharp  or  the  resourceful  Sam  Weller.  We  find 
nothing  in  Poe  that  even  remotely  approaches 
either  of  these  famous  characters.  His  men  and 
women  are  as  cold  as  marble,  and  about  as  desti- 
tute of  feeling.  They  do  not  appeal  to  the  sympa- 
thies ;  they  do  not  touch  the  heart.  They  are  clever 
sketches,  faultlessly  drawn ;  but  they  are,  after  all, 
simply  "ingenious  studies  in  black  and  white." 
Pygmalion  so  loved  Galatea,  the  beautiful  creation 
of  his  chisel,  that  the  gods  inspired  the  cold  marble 
with  life,  to  satisfy  the  prayerful  yearning  of  the 
artist's  heart.  But  Poe  never  had  any  deep  rever- 


122  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ence  or  tender  feeling  for  any  of  the  cold,  soulless 
creations  of  his  genius.  It  is  said  that  some  novel- 
ists have  wept  when  they  have  killed  the  heroes  of 
their  own  invention.  Poe  was  not  of  these.  He 
did  not  hesitate  to  alter  and  make  over  again  any  of 
his  uninspired,  lifeless  characters,  or  even  to  reduce 
Deity  itself — as  in  "Eureka" — to  a  mere  mathe- 
matical formula.  Poe's  men  and  women  wrere  con- 
ceived in  the  head,  not  in  the  heart,  and  born  of  the 
intellect;  consequently  they  had  no  warmth  of  feel- 
ing, no  soul.  This  fatal  defect  in  characterization 
is  due,  in  large  measure,  to  Poe's  woeful  lack  of 
human  sympathy  and  his  utter  lack  of  humor.  In 
no  other  part  of  his  writings  did  he  make  such  a 
signal,  glaring  failure  as  in  his  humorous  tales. 

Moreover,  Poe  did  not  know  how  to  combine 
people  and  situations  in  ordinary  life.  He  could 
paint  one  character  only  at  a  time.  He  never 
learned  the  art  of  painting  from  life,  and  never  suc- 
ceeded in  portraying  characters  in  their  interplay 
upon  one  another.  Indeed,  when  he  painted  he  took 
his  models  not  from  real  life,  but  from  his  own 
imagination.  He  was  the  victim  of  his  own  over- 
developed fancy.  Here  is  the  weak  spot  in  Poe's 
artistic  equipment.  His  imagination  was  abnor- 
mally developed,  and  he  lacked  the  will-power  to 
control  and  direct  it.  It  was  this  abnormal  imagi- 
nation that  gave  color  and  direction  to  all  he  ever 
achieved,  not  only  in  fiction,  but  also  in  actual  life. 
It  was  the  promptings  of  his  imagination  that  he 
followed  when,  in  his  effort  to  throw  men  and 
women  upon  the  canvas,  he  projected  morbid  per- 
sons like  himself,  not  robust,  healthy  characters. 
He  could,  it  is  true,  invent  single  situations  that  re- 
sembled those  of  achial  life;  but  he  could  not  follow 
these  up  in  a  natural  sequence.  In  short,  he  was 


I:IX;AU  ALLAN   i-oi-;  123 

JL romancer,  not  a  novelist.  _  We  believe,  with  Mr. 
Stedman,  that  P06  "could  never  have  written  a 
novel. 

Yet,  despite  the  limitations  of  his  tales,  Poe  wax 
an  entertaining,  a  charming  romancer  withal.  Of 
his  sixty  tales  or  prose  narratives  it  will  be  found, 
when  they  are  sifted,  that  only  about  a  third  deserve 
to  live.  But  these  will  live ;  and  they  have  already 
Avon  for  their  author,  abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  a 
fame  which,  perhaps,  no  other  American  has  ex- 
celled. By  his  intellectual  characteristics  he  seems 
to  have  appealed  to  the  French  reading  public  with, 
special  force.  Indeed,  the  French  were  the  first 
foreigners  to  discover  his  star,  which  they  hailed 
with  characteristic  delight — a  star  whose  light, 
after  more  than  half  a  century,  shows  no  sign  of 
waning  brilliance.  It  appears  from  the  biography 
appended  to  the  definitive  edition  of  Poe  that  be- 
tween 1890  and  1895  there  were  made  at  least  ten 
translations  of  his  works  into  various  foreign  lan- 
guages. What  could  have  brought  about  such  a  re- 
markable result?  In  a  word,  it  must  be  Poe's 
unique  genius — his  intense  originality,  which  has 
hardly  been  paralleled  in  literary  history,  and  his 
indefinable,  inimitable  charm  of  manner,  wrhich  ap- 
peals not  simply  to  men  of  one  particular  clime  or 
country,  but  to  all  men  everywhere. 


POE 
THE  RAVEN 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 
and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 
lore — 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 
a  tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door. 

"  ?T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door: 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 
the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore, 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden   whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors-  never  felt 

before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating 
"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  125 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 
longer, 

"Sir,"  said   I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 
implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door. 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened 
wide  the  door : — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "Lenore?" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "Lenore:" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 

before. 
"Surely,"   said   I,   "surely   that   is   something   at   my 

window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore ; 
Let  my  heart   be  still   a  moment  and   this   mystery 

explore : 

'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 


126  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt 

and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien   of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then   this   ebony   bird   beguiling  my   sad   fancy   into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, — 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore: 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 
so  plainly, 

Though    its   answer    little   meaning — little    relevancy 
bore; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  cham- 
ber door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POK  127 

the  Kavon,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 
Thai  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour, 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, — "Other  friends 

have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 

Start  led   at   the   stillness   broken   by   reply   so   aptly 

spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore 

Of  'Never — nevermore.' ': 

But  the  Kaven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door ; 
Then,   upon   the   velvet    sinking,   I    betook    myself   to 

linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore, 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  express-- 
ing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core; 


128  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  re- 
clining 

On   the   cushion's   velvet    lining   that   the    lamp-light 
gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloat- 
ing o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee— by  these 

angels-  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet !"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if  bird 
or  devil! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted— 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  im- 
plore : 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me, 
I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet:"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil— prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  129 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I 
shrieked,  upstarting : 

"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above  my 
door! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And  the   lamp-light   o'er  him   streaming  throws   his 

shadow  on  the  floor : 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 


LENORE 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl!  the  spirit  flown  for- 
ever ! 

Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 
river ; 

And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear? — weep  now  or 
nevermore ! 


130  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love, 

Lenore ! 
Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song  be 

sung: 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young, 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 

"Wretches,  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 
for  her  pride, 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her — that 
she  died ! 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read?  the  requiem  how 
be  sung 

By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours,  the  slander- 
ous tongue 

That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died 
so  young?" 

Peccavimus;  but  rave  not  thus !  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong. 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  gone  before,  with  Hope  that 

flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride: 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes ; 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon  her 

eyes. 

"Avaunt!   avaunt!   from  fiends  below,   the  indignant 

ghost  is  riven — 
From    Hell    unto  a   high   estate  far   up    within    the 

Heaven — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  lh<» 

King  of  Heaven ! 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  131 

Let  no  bell  toll,  then, — lest  her  soul,  amid  its  hallowed 

mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the 

damned  Earth! 
And  I! — to-night  my  heart  is  light! — no  dirge  will  I 

upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old 

days." 


ULALUME 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  : 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 


132  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 
Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose,  with  a  duplicate  horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

,  And  I  said — "She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  s*tars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies : 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes : 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said1 — "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh,  fly ! — let  us  fly ! — for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

J Mu incs  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 

Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    Pol-:  133 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 

Let  us  on  by  this-  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light! 
Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night: 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright: 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus- 1  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her. 

And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 

And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 
And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 

By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb; 
And  I  said — "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 

On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 

She  replied — "Ulalunie — Ulalume — 

'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume !" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried — "It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here : 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


134  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes!  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  : 


EDGAR  ALLAN   FOB  135 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


ISRAFEL 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses-  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 


136  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod. 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 
Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God, 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit: 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love. 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute : 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours-. 

' 
If  I  could  dwell 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  137 


TO  HELEN 

HELKX.  Ihy  bcauly  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicrean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand ! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land! 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

THOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine : 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On !  on !"— but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 


138  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 

No  more — no  more —  no  more — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 
And  all  my  nightly  dreams 

Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams— 

In  what  ethereal  dances, 
Bv  what  eternal  streams. 


CHAPTER  VI 
\VILLIAM  HICKLING  PEESCOTT 

Critics  are  generally  agreed  now  to  give  Prescott 
the  first  place  among  our  early  American  histo- 
rians. Few  of  his  predecessors  in  the  realm  of 
American  history  are  readable.  They  are,  almost 
to  a  man,  of  the  dry-as-dust  type  of  historian,  and 
their  musty,  dust-covered  tomes  enjoy  an  unbroken 
sleep  on  the  top  shelves  of  our  libraries.  Who,  it 
may  very  pertinently  be  asked,  now  thinks  of  read- 
ing such  desiccated  annals  as  those  of  Governor 
Hutchinson  or  Abiel  Holmes?  Yet  these  chronicles 
are  trustworthy  and  accurately  relate  the  events  of 
our  early  history.  But  they  are  insufferably  tedi- 
ous and  wearisome  to  the  reader's  spirit.  Not  so 
Prescott.  He  does  not  tire  or  fatigue  us;  on  the 
contrary,  he  holds  our  interest  and  attention  almost 
like  a  romancer.  The  reader  is  simply  fascinated 
with  his  graphic  and  romantic  page. 

But  Prescott  is  conspicuous  among  our  early  his- 
torians quite  as  much  for  his  historic  value  as  for  his 
chaste,  classical  style.  It  is  true,  that  the  brilliant 
literary  qualities  which  adorn  the  pages  of  his  his- 
tory so  as,  occasionally,  to  challenge  comparison 
with  Macaulay's  rhetorical  paragraphs  have  raised 
a  question,  in  the  minds  of  some,  as  to  our  author's 
conscientious  adherence  to  fact.  One  is  inclined  to 
doubt  whether  such  glowing  pictures  as  embellish 
Prescott's  history  are  not  the  product  of  an  imagi- 
nation untrammeled  and  more  or  less  divorced  from 
fact.  To  such  a  degree  has  the  historian  invested 


140  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  dry  and  uninviting  annals  with  the  warmth  and 
glow  of  his  poetic  imagination  and  made  the  events 
of  those  romantic  days  again  unfold  themselves  be- 
fore our  eyes  under  the  touch  of  his  brilliant  pen. 
Yet  subsequent  investigators  in  this  field  have  as- 
sured us  that  Prescott  had  a  scrupulous  regard  for 
fact  combined  with  his  gift  of  a  vivid  imagination. 
By  this  happy  union  of  his  mental  qualities  he  was 
enabled  to  make  his  pages  exceedingly  attractive, 
without  distorting  the  facts  of  history.  However, 
it  may  be  presumed  that  Prescott  did  not  paint  with 
an  absolute  fidelity  to  fact,  such  as  is  exacted  by 
the  present-day  standard  of  writing  history.  He 
colored  his  picture  a  little,  perhaps,  using  the 
license  of  historical  writing  then  in  vogue.  But  he 
did  not  allow  his  love  of  rhetorical  adornment  ma- 
terially to  warp  the  truth.  He  was  compelled  in 
writing  his  narratives  to  rely  upon  documents 
highly  colored  and  sometimes  really  misleading. 
He  lacked  those  aids  to  arriving  at  the  facts  which 
archaeological  research  has  brought  to  light  since 
his  day.  Perhaps,  too,  he  lacked  to  some  extent 
that  rare  analytical  faculty  for  weighing  evidence 
with  tedious  minuteness  and  for  making  nice  dis- 
tinctions which  historians  ever  and  anon  are  forced 
to  put  into  requisition. 

Prescott  marks  an  epoch  in  American  historical 
writing.  His  predecessors'  works  constitute  a 
veritable  valley  of  dry  bones.  But  Prescott  broke 
with  the  traditions  which  the  bald  chroniclers  had 
followed,  when  he  began  to  write  his  "Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,"  and  himself  followed  the  lead  of 
Washington  Irving,  who  blazed  out  the  path  of 
romance  in  American  letters.  Moreover,  Prescott 
left  the  beaten  track  in  the  selection  of  a  subject  for 
investigation  and  chose  a  period  for  his  historical 


WILLIAM    IlICKLING   PRESCOTT  141 

writing  which  is  by  nature  romantic  and  which, 
therefore,  readily  lends  itself  to  imaginative  treat- 
ment. The  age  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  is  a 
period  of  history  which  appeals  strongly  to  the 
imagination  and  the  theme  itself  is  naturally  inspir- 
ing and  invites  attention.  Though  a  foreign  sub- 
ject, it  is  more  picturesque  and  attractive  than  any 
purely  American  theme  which  the  author  might 
have  selected  for  his  narrative  powers.  Besides, 
Prescott  was  especially  fitted  for  this  kind  of  work. 
It  was  his  ambition  from  youth  to  lead  a  literary 
life,  and  he  resolved  to  fashion  that  life  after  the 
model  of  Gibbon,  the  great  English  historian  of  the 
"Decline  and  Fall." 

Prescott  was  born  of  a  distinguished  family  in 
the  quaint  old  New  England  town  of  Salem,  in  1796. 
He  was  graduated  at  Harvard,  where  his  father  be- 
fore him  was  graduated.  Young  Prescott  inherited 
an  ample  fortune,  so  that  he  was  relieved  of  the 
necessity  of  working  for  his  bread.  This  is  an  im- 
portant fact  in  his  career.  For  only  a  man  of  con- 
siderable wealth  could  have  carried  out  Prescott's 
ambition  of  writing  an  epoch-making  history,  which 
entailed  so  great  a  draft  on  his  purse  not  only  for 
collecting  the  necessary  documents  and  data,  but 
also  for  maintaining  himself  while  he  was  engaged 
in  writing  his  historical  works.  Prescott  early 
conceived  the  idea  of  writing  history  and  spared  no 
pains  or  expense  to  equip  himself  thoroughly  for 
his  chosen  field  of  labor.  Unfortunately,  while  at 
college  he  sustained  the  irreparable  loss  of  one  eye, 
which  proved  a  most  serious  handicap  to  him  the 
remainder  of  his  life,  for  the  injury  soon  extended 
to  the  other  eye,  and  he  was  rendered  almost  totally 
blind.  Yet,  despite  this  deplorable  drawback,  he 
resolutely  followed  out  his  life  purpose ;  and  by  the 


142  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

services  of  readers  and  secretaries  whom  he  em- 
ployed he  was  enabled  to  read  through  a  vast  col- 
lection of  historical  literature  bearing  on  the  period 
selected.  By  means  of  a  "noctograph" — a  blind 
man's  writing  machine — he  even  wrote  himself, 
thus  facilitating  the  progress  of  his  work. 

After  determining  definitely  upon  the  period  of 
his  historical  investigation,  Prescott  not  only  col- 
lected all  the  authorities  touching  his  theme,  to  be 
had  in  this  country,  but  he  even  employed  secre- 
taries to  make  copies  of  all  relevant  historical  docu- 
ments to  be  found  in  the  various  European  libra- 
ries. In  this  manner  he  acquired  and  brought  to- 
gether such  a  vast  mass  of  historical  data  on  his 
chosen  theme  as  no  other  American  historian  be- 
fore him  had  ever  done  on  any  subject.  This  ma- 
terial he  studied  most  assiduously,  pondering  over 
it  by  day  and  by  night,  until  he  thoroughly  mas- 
tered his  subject. 

The  first  fruit  of  Prescott's  facile  and  graphic 
pen  was  his  "History  of  the  Reign  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  the  Catholic,"  published  in  three  vol- 
umes, in  1837.  This  was  the  finished  product  of  ten 
years  of  incessant  toil  and  study.  The  author  was 
happy  in  the  choice  of  his  theme  and  equally  happy 
in  its  treatment.  The  subject,  Spain  in  her  palmi- 
est days,  was  suggested  to  the  author  by  the  influ- 
ence and  power  of  that  now  decadent  empire  upon 
the  New  World.  It  was  an  unexplored  domain  to 
American  historians  and  for  this  reason  was  in- 
vested with  all  the  interest  of  novelty. 

The  history  assuredly  does  not  seem  to  be  the 

work  of  a  man  practically   blind.     Nor   does   the 

,  author's  blindness  appear  to  have  had  any  effect 

upon  his  clearness  of  intellectual  vision,  or  upon 

his  concise  expression  of  thought.     On  the  con- 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT  143 

trary,  Prescott's  loss  of  siglit  seems  to  have  con- 
tributed to  make  his  faculty  of  observation  all  the 
keener  and  more  accurate,  just  as  the  loss  of  one  of 
the  five  senses  is  said  to  cause  the  remaining  four 
to  be  more  highly  developed.  He  evidently  pos- 
sessed an  inner  light  which  was  not  in  the  leasl  im- 
paired by  the  loss  of  his  physical  sight.  This 
history  showed  Prescott  also  to  be  in  the  possession 
of  a  marvelous  power  of  assimilation  of  facts  as 
well  as  of  a  strikingly  imaginative  cast  of  mind. 
It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  this  maiden  ef- 
fort of  a  patient  and  careful  historian  took  rank  at 
once  with  the  best  histories  of  the  kind  in  the  En- 
glish tongue.  The  work  was  everywhere  regarded  a 
brilliant  achievement  and  shed  lustre  upon  Ameri- 
can scholarship  and  research. 

His  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella''  was  no  sooner 
issued  from  the  press  than  Prescott  set  himself  a 
similar  task  no  less  bold  and  arduous.  This  was 
his  scholarly  "History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico," 
which  appeared  in  1843.  This  theme  grew  quite 
naturally  out  of  the  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  age 
already  treated.  Just  as  the  first  work  covered  the 
period  of  Spanish  history  from  1469  to  the  time  of 
Columbus,  so  this  second  work  was  designed  to  con- 
tinue the  story  from  the  age  of  the  famous  dis- 
coverer down  to  the  year  1519,  which  Cortez  signal- 
ized by  his  conquest  of  Mexico.  The  period  of  Span- 
ish history  embraced  in  the  life  of  Columbus, 
Washington  Irving  had  already  treated  very  fully 
in  his  "Columbus."  Indeed,  Irving  was  now  indus- 
triously collecting  material  for  a  history  of  the  con- 
quest of  Mexico,  which  he  contemplated  writing, 
when  he  learned  of  Prescott's  intention  of  treating 
the  same  subject.  Irving  thereupon  gracefully 
retired  from  the  field  in  favor  of  Prescott,  who,  with 


144  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

all  due  appreciation  of  the  former's  magnanimity, 
prosecuted  his  plan  with  the  utmost  diligence  and 
care.  The  result  was  a  piece  of  historical  work 
which  the  scholarly  world  greeted  with  loud  ac- 
claims of  praise. 

Prescott's  last  complete  work  was  his  "History 
of  the  Conquest  of  Peru,"  published  in  1847.  This 
continued  the  early  Spanish- American  annals  down 
to  the  year  1530.  Immediately  after  the  comple- 
tion of  this  treatise  Prescott  undertook  his  "History 
of  the  Reign  of  Philip  the  Second,"  which  he  never 
finished.  It  is  a  well-known  story  how  the  elder 
historian,  when  he  learned  that  young  Motley  had 
begun  work  on  his  kindred  theme,  the  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Eepublic  against  Philip  the  Second  in  1572, 
generously  resigned  his  subject  in  favor  of  his 
junior,  although  he  had  already  published  three 
volumes  of  the  history.  Truly,  as  Ogden,  Prescott's 
recent  biographer,  observes,  this  was  a  fine  example 
of  passing  on  the  torch  of  learning. 

The  "Philip  the  Second"  was  designed  to  cover 
the  period  from  1555  to  1598.  The  ground  was 
afterward  covered  by  Motley,  but  from  a  different 
point  of  view,  in  his  "Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic." 
This  naturally  forms  an  interesting  episode  in  the 
field  of  historical  investigation  which  our  author 
had  staked  off  for  himself  before  his  sudden  and 
untimely  end.  It  will  be  seen  on  examination  that 
Prescott  thus  covered  in  his  historical  work  that 
dramatic  and  inspiring  period  of  Spanish  history, 
from  1469  to  1598.  Those  were  the  days  when 
Spain  enjoyed  her  greatest  splendor  and  prestige  as 
a  nation;  and  Prescott  has  merited  our  gratitude 
for  giving  us  a  very  graphic  and  picturesque  de- 
scription both  of  the  domestic  affairs  of  that  great 
monarchy  and  of  its  relations  to  the  New  World, 


WILLIAM    IIICKLING   PRESCOTT  145 

during  thai  era  of  IKT  ascendency.  Thus  viewed  in 
its  entirety,  the  work  of  our  author  is  seen  to  pos- 
sess, therefore,  a  unity  and  a  completeness  which, 
to  the  casual  reader,  is  not  readily  apparent. 

Prescott  was  an  indefatigable  worker.  He  al- 
lowed himself  but  little  respite  from  labor  from  the 
time  he  began  his  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  down  to 
the  day  of  his  sudden  death  in  1859.  As  soon  as 
one  stupendous  task  was  finished,  another  was  be- 
gun without  intermission.  After  the  completion 
of  his  "History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru,"  however, 
he  did  make  a  brief  visit  to  Europe  before  beginning 
his  "Philip  the  Second."  Perhaps  it  was  his  habit 
of  unbroken  toil  and  study  that  hastened  his  end. 
If  he  had  husbanded  his  strength  and  allowed  the 
bow  to  unbend  oftener,  it  is  not  improbable  that  he 
might  have  lived  to  enjoy  a  green  old  age.  But 
such  was  his  untiring  industry  and  contempt  of 
ease  that  he  was  loth  to  relax  his  studies  even  upon 
the  warning  note  nature  sounded  for  him  in  the 
slight  stroke  of  paralysis  he  sustained  the  year  be- 
fore his  death.  For  during  those  days,  despite  his 
constant  suffering  from  his  inveterate  enemy  rheu- 
matism, he  taxed  his  diminishing  strength  with  the 
labor  of  preparing  a  new  edition  of  Robertson's 
"Charles  the  Fifth"  and  a  brief  biography  of 
Charles  Brockden  Brown.  Even  a  few  weeks  before 
his  demise  he  collected  a  number  of  miscellanies, 
his  annual  contributions  to  the  North  American  Re- 
view, and  published  them  in  book  form. 

It  is  now  time  for  us  to  weigh  Prescott  critically, 
if  we  may,  and  to  make  an  effort  to  determine  his 
place  in  American  literature.  Is  he  really  entitled 
to  be  counted  among  the  makers  of  our  literature? 
The  answer  to  this  question  ought,  in  our  judgment, 


146  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

to  be  in  the  affirmative;  the  reasons  will  be  found 
in  the  following  paragraphs. 

Prescott  enjoys  the  distinction  of  being  the  first 
American  historian  to  write  with  a  charm  and 
grace  of  style  to  repay  the  reader's  attention.  Un- 
like his  predecessors,  he  is,  in  no  sense,  a  mere 
chronicler  who  gives  the  barest  record  of  facts.  He 
is  infinitely  removed  from  those  annalists  who  seem 
studiously  to  avoid  all  rhetorical  embellishment  for 
fear  it  may  enhance  the  value  of  their  work  as  litera- 
ture. Prescott  harked  back  to  the  traditions  of 
history  writing  as  practiced  by  such  historians  as 
Gibbon  and  Macaulay,  whom  he  took  as  his  models. 
Moreover,  he  brought  to  his  congenial  task  a  pen 
that  did  not  scrupulously  eschew  the  attractiveness 
of  a  polished  literary  style ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  he 
deemed  it  worth  while  to  impart  a  certain  charm  to 
the  expression  of  the  facts  of  history.  Besides,  he 
saw  his  subject  Avith  a  poeticJlmagination  and  so 
presented  it  in  his  pages.  He  taxed  his  powers  to 
portray  the  departed  glory  and  magnificence  of  that 
gorgeous  Spanish  civilization  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, and  we  may  believe  that  that  ancient  grandeur 
and  splendor  of  Spain  are  adequately  reflected  in 
the  narratives  he  bequeathed  us  for  the  enrichment 
of  our  literature.  He  totally  rejected  the  theory 
now  prevalent  that  the  historian  must  utterly  re- 
press the  imagination  and  must  spurn  all  the  de- 
vices of  rhetoric  and  the  graces  of  style,  presenting 
In  his  record  the  simple,  unadorned  facts. 

Prescott's  writing  is  of  the  class  known  as 
"grand."  Yet  it  is  not  the  ordinary  "fine  writing," 
which  is  wearisome  and  even  tawdry.  It  possesses 
some  quality  that  redeems  it  from  the  charge  of 
being  grandiose.  Prescott's  style  and  manner  are 
very  much  like  Macaulay's,  though  less  dramatic 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT  147 

and  less  rhetorical.  Prescott  appears  to  have  been 
an  ardent  admirer  of  the  great  English  stylist  and 
was  consciously  or  unconsciously  under  his  influ- 
ence in  forming  his  own  literary  style.  One  notices 
in  Prescott,  as  in  Macaulay,  though  to  a  less  extent 
in  the  former,  a  similar  attempt  at  contrast  and 
parallel  and  other  tricks  of  rhetoric  resorted  to  by 
stylists,  to  heighten  the  effect.  It  is  to  be  said  to 
the  credit  of  the  American  historian  that  he  does 
not  sin  as  egregiously  in  this  respect  as  the  illustri- 
ous English  historian  does. 

However,  this  manner  of  writing  is  not  the 
fashion  to-day,  and  the  twentieth  century  reader  is 
therefore,  disposed  to  tire  somewhat  of  Prescott's 
gorgeous  imagery  and  romantic  descriptions,  just  as 
he  tires  of  Macaulay's  pictured  page  with  its  ever- 
recurring  contrast,  balance  and  period.  But 
fashion  is  a  fickle  and  capricious  goddess,  and  her 
votaries  are  never  compelled  to  follow  one  decree 
for  long.  Who  knows  when  the  manner  of  histor- 
ical writing  practiced  by  Macaulay  and  Prescott 
may  again  come  into  vogue  and  be  in  favor?  Then 
our  present-day  ideals  in  literary  style  may  be  con- 
sidered antiquated  and  passe. 

Yet  it  is  very  evident  that  Prescott  lacked  a  cer- 
tain reserve.  His  imagination  strikes  one  as  being 
rather  exuberant,  and  his  flights  of  fancy  in  his  de- 
scriptive passages  seem  here  and  there  not  to  be 
entirely  under  control.  The  author  lacks  in  a 
measure  that  restraint  which  inspires  absolute  con- 
fidence in  his  narrative.  His  rivals  Motley,  Park- 
man  and  Bancroft  show  themselves  somewhat  supe- 
rior in  this  particular.  It  is  perhaps  this  lack  of 
restraint,  this  exuberance  of  fancy,  that  explains  in 
large  measure  Prescott's  partial  loss  of  favor  with 
present-day  historians.  This  is  the  penalty  he  has 


148  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

had  to  pay  for  the  bold  manner  in  which  he  pain 
his  vivid  portraits.  As  an  artist  he  could  not  paint 
a  miniature.  He  required  a  large  canvas  and  relied 
for  his  effect,  not  upon  sharpness  of  definition  or 
distinctness  of  outline,  but  upon  his  brilliant  color- 
ing. The  psychological  explanation  of  this  defect 
of  our  author  is  to  be  found,  perhaps,  in  his  physical 
infirmity  of  loss  of  sight.  Anent  the  effect  of  this 
affliction  upon  the  historian's  style,  his  biographer 
Ticknor  remarks  that  Prescott's  personality  went 
into  his  books  because  of  his  loss  of  sight,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  he  was  forced  to  ponder  long  and 
then  to  address  his  readers  with  the  voice,  as  it 
were,  and  not  with  the  pen. 

"His  infirmity/'  continues  Ticknor,  whom  it  is 
worth  while  to  quote  here  as  throwing  light  on  Pres- 
cott's  method  of  composition, — "His  infirmity  was 
a  controlling  influence,  and  is  to  be  counted  among 
the  secrets  of  a  manner  which  has  been  found  at 
once  so  simple  and  so  charming.  He  was  compelled 
to  prepare  everything,  down  to  the  smallest  details, 
in  his  memory,  and  to  correct  and  fashion  it  all 
while  it  was  still  held  there  in  silent  suspense ;  after 
which  he  wrote  it  down,  by  means  of  his  noctograph, 
in  the  freest  and  boldest  manner,  without  any  oppor- 
tunity really  to  change  the  phraseology  as  he  went 
along,  and  with  little  power  to  alter  or  modify  it  af- 
terwards. This,  I  doubt  not,  was  the  principal 
cause  of  the  strength,  as  well  as  of  the  grace,  ease 
and  attractiveness  of  his  style.  It  gave  a  life,  a 
freshness,  a  freedom,  both  to  his  thoughts  and  to  his 
mode  of  expressing  them.  .  .  .  He  was  able 
to  carry  what  was  equal  to  sixty  pages  of  printed 
matter  in  his  memory  for  many  days,  correcting  and 
finishing  its  stlye  as  he  walked  or  rode  or  drove  for 


WILI-IAM    IIICKLING   PRESCOTT  149 

his  daily  exercise.  In  1839,  therefore,  after  going 
carefully  over  the  whole  ground,  he  said,  'My  con- 
clusion is,  that  the  reader  may  take  my  style  for 
better  or  for  worse,  as  it  now  is.7  And  to  this  con- 
clusion he  wisely  adhered.  His  manner  became, 
perhaps,  a  little  freer  and  easier,  from  continued 
practice,  and  from  the  confidence  that  success  neces- 
snrily  brings  with  it,  but  in  essential  elements  and 
characteristics  it  was  never  changed. J? 

As  for  Prescott's  historical  method,  it  need  hardly 
be  remarked,  as  has  been  previously  stated,  that  it 
is  unlike  the  approved  method  of  research  now  in 
vogue.  In  the  first  half  of  the  last  century  it  was 
not  the  custom  for  the  investigator  in  the  realm  of 
history  to  go  back  to  the  original  sources  as  it  is  the 
custom  to-day.  But  Prescott  deserves  credit  for  the 
painstaking  and  untiring  efforts  he  put  forth  in 
order  to  get  at  the  original  documents.  However, 
he  did  not  discriminate  as  carefully  as  he  ought  to 
have  done,  the  critics  tell  us,  and  he  did  not  write 
history  with  the  absolute  accuracy  and  exactness 
demanded  by  the  present  standard.  But  his  method 
is  the  fault  of  his  times,  rather  than  his  individual 
fault.  It  was  the  method  of  the  foremost  historians 
of  his  age,  such  as  Gibbon  and  Milman.  According 
to  that  method,  the  historian  clothed  his  subject 
with  a  romantic  interest  and  presented  it  with  an 
adornment  of  rhetoric  and  a  charm  of  style  which 
are  tabooed  by  twentieth  century  historians  as  out 
of  harmony  with  the  true  spirit  of  history.  The 
truth  is,  the  ideals  of  the  historian  a  century  ago 
were,  to  an  appreciable  degree,  pictorial  and  liter- 
ary^  not  scientific  and  psychological,  as  they  are  to- 
day. Because  of  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in 
the  last  century  in  the  aim  and  object  of  writing  his- 
tory, therefore,  and  as  a  logical  result  of  the  shifting 


150  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  ideals,  Prescott's  fame  as  an  historian  is  in  a  tem- 
porary eclipse  at  present. 

Still,  another  word  is  to  be  saiu.  Not  only  is 
Prescott  open  to  criticism  on  the  score  of  excessive 
rhetorical  embellishment  in  which  he  compromised 
somewhat  scientific  accuracy,  but  he  also  shows  a 
lackjrf  that  power  of  analysis  which  is  demanded 
to-day  of  a  writer  of  history.  He  fails  to 
meet  successfully  the  test  of  a  philosophical  ex- 
planation of  the  causes  of  events,  and  in  this  fail- 
ure he  falls  below  the  highest  type  of  historian. 
But  at  this  juncture  one  feels  tempted  to  demur  and 
to  raise  the  question  whether  there  are  not  several 
different  schools  of  history.  Now,  Prescott  belongs 
to  the  classiealjschool.  This  being  so,  it  is  evidently 
not  quite  fair  to  judge  him  by  the  exacting  stand- 
ards of  scientific  research.  The  scientific  method, 
no  doubt,  is  better  adapted  to  ascertaining  the 
actual  facts  of  history  and,  for  this  reason,  is  to  be 
preferred  to  the  antiquated  methods  in  use  a  cen- 
tury ago.  Yet  the  methods  of  the  classical  school 
are  not  to  be  lightly  condemned  and  brushed  aside 
as  having  no  claim  on  our  respect  and  attention. 
For  the  historians  of  that  school,  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  their  ideals,  produced  works  of  merit  which 
are  both  an  honor  to  the  methods  they  followed  and 
a  noble  and  enduring  monument,  as  mere  literature, 
to  English  and  American  scholarship.  Is  it  not 
more  just,  then,  to  judge  Prescott  by  the  standards 
of  the  classical  school  of  history  and  to  compare 
him  with  the  writers  of  his  class — Parkman,  Motley 
and  Bancroft? 

Compared  with  the  leading  American  historians 
of  the  romantic  school,  Prescott,  it  must  be  con- 
ceded, fully  holds  his  own.  For  his  reputation  has 
not  yet  been  eclipsed  by  any  of  these,  and  his  star 


WILLIAM   HICKLING  PRESCOTT  151 

shines  with  its  accustomed  lustre  in  that  brilliant 
constellation  of  our  American  historians.  But  he 
challenges  comparison  not  only  with  the  best  Amer- 
ican historians  of  his  age.  He  even  suggests  com- 
parison with  the  great  classical  historians  of  Eng- 
land and  France — Gibbon  and  Michelet.  Prescott 
still  has  hosts  of  admiring  readers  on  both  sides  of 
tluk  Atlantic.  Through  his  pages  the  reader  still  be- 
holds with  unfeigned  pleasure  the  imperial  palaces 
of  Spanish  monarchs  of  a  forgotten  age  and,  under 
the  spell  of  his  guidance,  roams  over  enchanted 
ground  where  men  and  women  of  that  romantic 
period  lived,  moved  and  had  their  being.  The  critics 
tell  us  that  of  all  our  American  historians  Prescott 
is  the  one  most  acceptable  to  the  British  reading 
public  to-day.  It  is  a  matter  of  record  that  when 
his  works  first  appeared,  the  English  people  seemed 
to  vie  with  the  Americans  in  doing  the  author  honor. 
But  waiving  Prescott's  renown  as  a  historical  in- 
vestigator which  the  critics  admit  is  sufficient  to 
rank  him  among  the  first  of  his  class,  and  consider- 
ing his  work  in  the  light  of  literature  simply,  one  is 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the  writer  enjoys  high 
and  enviable  esteem.  Yet  the  style  and  the  subject 
are  so  indissolubly  united  in  this  man  of  letters  that 
one  can  not  consider  him  as  a  man  of  letters  merely 
without  considering  him,  at  the  same  time,  as  a  his- 
torian. Whatever  the  disparagers  of  his  method  may 
say,  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  no  English  or  Amer- 
ican author  has  yet  ventured  to  rewrite  the  period 
of  Spanish-American  history  which  Prescott  has 
portrayed  with  so  much  romantic  interest  and  grace 
of  style.  Surely  it  is  no  small  achievement  to  have 
written  the  lives  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  and  of 
Philip  the  Second,  and  to  have  told  the  story  of  the 
conquest  of  Mexico  and  the  conquest  of  Peru  in  such 


152  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

a  manner  as  to  have  made  the  field  peculiarly  one's 
own  and  to  have  discouraged  others  from  attempt- 
ing to  cover  the  same  ground.  This  fact  ought  to 
compensate,  in  large  measure,  for  Prescott's  wan- 
ing prestige  as  a  historical  investigator,  and  ought 
to  furnish  ample  evidence,  if  evidence  is  needed,  of 
the  substantial  trustworthiness  and  fidelity  of  his 
attractive  narrative.  This,  too,  may  be  regarded  as 
proof  positive  that  there  is  nothing  superficial,  noth- 
ing sensational  in  his  work;  otherwise  the  field 
would  have  been  a  crying  invitation  to  some  modern 
investigator  for  a  fresh  treatment  of  the  subject.  It 
is  this  virtue  of  essential  accuracy  as  an  historian 
which  combines  with  his  positive  excellence  as  a 
prose  artist  that  places  Prescott  among  the  literary 
leaders  of  America  and  establishes  his  position  as 
one  of  the  makers  of  our  national  literature. 


PKESCOTT 
CONQUEST  OF  PERU   (INTRODUCTION) 

Of  the  numerous  nations  which  occupied  the  great 
American  continent  at  the  time  of  its  discovery  by  the 
Europeans,  the  two  most  advanced  in  power  and  refine- 
ment were  undoubtedly  those  of  Mexico  and  Peru.  But, 
though  resembling  one  another  in  extent  of  civilization, 
they  differed  widely  as  to  the  nature  of  it;  and  the 
philosophical  student  of  his  species  may  feel  a  natural 
curiosity  to  trace  the  different  steps  by  which  these  two 
nations  strove  to  emerge  from  the  state  of  barbarism, 
and  place  themselves  on  a  higher  point  in  the  scale  of 
humanity.  In  a  former  work  I  have  endeavored  to 
exhibit  the  institutions  and  character  of  the  ancient 
Mexicans,  and  the  story  of  their  conquest  by  the  Span- 
iards. The  present  will  be  devoted  to  the  Peruvians; 
and,  if  their  history  shall  be  found  to  present  less 
strange  anomalies  and  striking  contrasts  than  that  of 
the  Aztecs,  it  may  interest  us  quite  as  much  by  the 
pleasing  picture  it  offers  of  a  well-regulated  govern- 
ment and  sober  habits  of  industry  under  the  patri- 
archal sway  of  the  Incas. 

The  empire  of  Peru,  at  the  period  of  the  Spanish  in- 
vasion, stretched  along  the  Pacific  from  about  the  sec- 
ond degree  north  to  the  thirty-seventh  degree  of  south 
latitude;  a  line,  also,  which  describes  the  western 
boundaries  of  the  modern  republics  of  Ecuador,  Peru, 
Bolivia  and  Chili.  Its  breadth  can  not  so  easily  be 
determined;  for,  though  bounded  everywhere  by  the 
great  ocean  on  the  west,  towards  the  east  it  spreads  out, 
in  many  parts,  considerably  beyond  the  mountains,  to 
the  confines  of  barbarous  states,  whose  exact  position 
is  undetermined,  or  whose  names  are  effaced  from  the 


154  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

map  of  history.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  its  breadth 
was  altogether  disproportioned  to  its  length. 

The  topographical  aspect  of  the  country  is  very  re- 
markable. A  strip  of  land,  rarely  exceeding  twenty 
leagues  in  width,  runs  along  the  coast,  and  is  hemmed 
in  through  its  whole  extent  by  a  colossal  range  of  moun- 
tains, which,  advancing  from  the  Straits-  of  Magellan, 
reaches  its  highest  elevation,  indeed,  the  highest  on  the 
American  continent — about  the  seventeenth  degree 
south,  and  after  crossing  the  line,  gradually  subsides 
into  hills  of  inconsiderable  magnitude,  as  it  enters  the 
Isthmus  of  Panama.  This  is  the  famous  Cordillera  of 
the  Andes,  or  "copper  mountains,"  as  termed  by  the 
natives,  though  they  might  with  more  reason  have  been 
called  "mountains  of  gold."  Arranged  sometimes  in  a 
single  line,  though  more  frequently  in  two  or  three  lines 
running  parallel  or  obliquely  to  each  other,  they  seem 
to  the  voyager  on  the  ocean  but  one  continuous  chain ; 
while  the  huge  volcanoes,  which  to  the  inhabitants  of 
the  table-land  look  like  solitary  and  independent 
masses,  appear  to  him  only  like  so  many  peaks  of  the 
same  vast  and  magnificent  range.  So  immense  is  the 
scale  on  which  Nature  works  in  these  regions,  that  it 
is  only  when  viewed  from  a  great  distance,  that  the 
spectator  can,  in  any  degree,  comprehend  the  relation 
of  the  several  parts  to  the  stupendous  whole.  Few  of 
the  works  of  Nature,  indeed,  are  calculated  to  produce 
impressions  of  higher  sublimity  than  the  aspect  of  this 
coast,  as  it  is  gradually  unfolded  to  the  eye  of  the 
mariner  sailing  on  the  distant  waters  of  the  Pacific; 
where  mountain  is  seen  to  rise  above  mountain,  and 
Chimborazo,  with  its  glorious  canopy  of  snow,  glitter- 
ing far  above  the  clouds,  crowns  the  whole  as  with  a 
celestial  diadem. 

The  face  of  the  country  would  appear  to  be  peculiarly 
unfavorable  to  the  purposes  both  of  agriculture  and  of 
internal  communication.  The  sandy  strip  along  the 
masl,  where  miii  rarely  falls,  is  fed  only  by  a  few  scanty 
streams  that  furnish  a  remarkable  contrast  to  the  vast 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT  155 

volumes  of  water  which  roll  down  the  eastern  sides  of 
the  Cordilleras  into  the  Atlantic.  The  precipitous 
steeps  of  the  sierra,  with  its-  splintered  sides  of  por- 
phyry and  granite,  and  its  higher  regions  wrapped  in 
snows  that  never  melt  under  the  fierce  sun  of  the  equa- 
tor, unless  it  be  from  the  desolating  action  of  its  own 
volcanic  fires,  might  seem  equally  unpropitious  to  the 
labors  of  the  husbandman.  And  all  communication 
between  the  parts  of  the  long-extended  territory  might 
be  thought  to  be  precluded  by  the  savage  character  of 
the  region,  broken  up  by  precipices,  furious  torrents, 
and  impassable  quebradas, — those  hideous  rents  in  the 
mountain  chain,  whose  depths  the  eye  of  the  terrffied 
traveller,  as  he  winds  along  his  aerial  pathway,  vainly 
endeavors  to  fathom.  Yet  the  industry,  we  might  almost 
say,  the  genius,  of  the  Indian  was  sufficient  to  over- 
come all  these  impediments  of  Nature. 

By  a  judicious  system  of  canals  and  subterraneous 
aqueducts,  the  waste  places  on  the  coast  were  refreshed 
by  copious  streams,  that  clothed  them  in  fertility  and 
beauty.  Terraces  were  raised  on  the  steep  sides  of  the 
Cordillera ;  and,  as  the  different  elevations  had  the  effect 
of  difference  of  latitude,  they  exhibited  in  regular  gra- 
dation every  variety  of  vegetable  form,  from  the  stimu- 
lated growth  of  the  tropics,  to  the  temperate  products 
of  a  northern  clime;  while  flocks  of  llamas — the  Peru- 
vian sheep — wandered  with  their  shepherds  over  the 
broad,  snow-covered  wastes  on  the  crests  of  the  sierra, 
which  rose  beyond  the  limits  of  cultivation.  An  indus- 
trious population  settled  along  the  lofty  regions  of  the 
plateaus,  and  towns  and  hamlets,  clustering  amidst 
orchards  and  wide-spreading  gardens,  seemed  sus- 
pended in  the  air  far  above  the  ordinary  elevation  of 
the  clouds.  Intercourse  was  maintained  between  these 
numerous  settlements  by  means  of  the  great  roads 
which  traversed  the  mountain  passes,  and  opened  an 
easy  communication  between  the  capital  and  the  remot- 
est extremities  of  the  empire. 


156  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

The  source  of  this  civilization  is  traced  to  the  valley 
of  Cuzco,  the  central  region  of  Peru,  as  the  name  im- 
plies. The  origin  of  the  Peruvian  empire,  like  the  ori- 
gin of  all  nations,  except  the  very  few  which,  like  our 
own,  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  date  from  a  civilized 
period  and  people,  is  lost  in  the  mists  of  fable,  which, 
in  fact,  have  settled  as  darkly  round  its  history  as 
round  that  of  any  nation,  ancient  or  modern,  in  the  Old 
World.  According  to  the  tradition  most  familiar  to 
the  European  scholar,  the  time  was,  when  the  ancient 
races  of  the  continent  were  all  plunged  in  deplorable 
barbarism;  when  they  worshipped  nearly  every  object 
in  nature  indiscriminately;  made  war  their  pastime, 
and  feasted  on  the  flesh  of  their  slaughtered  captives. 
The  Sun,  the  great  luminary  and  parent  of  mankind, 
taking  compassion  on  their  degraded  condition,  sent 
two  of  his  children,  Manco  Capac  and  Mama  Oello 
Huanco,  to  gather  the  natives  into  communities,  and 
teach  them  the  arts  of  civilized  life.  The  celestial  pair, 
brother  and  sister,  husband  and  wife,  advanced  along 
the  high  plains  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lake  Titicaca, 
to  about  the  sixteenth  degree  south.  They  bore  with 
them  a  golden  wedge,  and  were  directed  to  take  up 
their  residence  on  the  spot  where  the  sacred  emblem 
should  without  effort  sink  into  the  ground.  They  pro- 
ceeded accordingly  but  a  short  distance,  as  far  as  the 
valley  Cuzco,  the  spot  indicated  by  the  performance  of 
the  miracle,  since  there  the  wedge  speedily  sank  into 
the  earth  and  disappeared  forever.  Here  the  children 
of  the  Sun  established  their  residence,  and  soon  entered 
upon  their  beneficent  mission  among  the  rude  inhabi- 
tants of  the  country;  Manco  Capac  teaching  the  men 
the  arts  of  agriculture,  and  Mama  Oello  initiating  her 
own  sex  in  the  mysteries  of  weaving  and  spinning.  The 
simple  people  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the  messengers  of 
Ilfjiven,  and,  gathering  together  in  considerable  num- 
bers, laid  the  foundation  of  the  city  of  Cuzco.  The  same 
wise  and  benevolent  maxims,  whirl i  regulated  the  con- 
duct of  the  first  Incas,  descended  to  their  successors, 


WILLIAM   HICKLING   PRESCOTT  157 

and  under  their  mild  scepter  a  community  gradually 
oxl on ded  itself  along  the  broad  surface  of  the  table- 
land, which  assorted  its-  superiority  over  the  surround- 
ing tribos.  Such  is  the  pleasing  picture  of  the  origin 
of  the  Peruvian  monarchy,  as  portrayed  by  Garcilnsoo 
de  la  Vega,  the  descendant  of  the  Incas,  and  through 
him  made  familiar  to  the  European  reader. 

But  this  tradition  is  one  of  several  current  among 
the  Peruvian  Indians,  and  probably  not  the  one  most 
generally  received.  Another  legend  speaks  of  certain 
white  and  bearded  men,  who,  advancing  from  the  shores 
of  Lake  Titicaca,  established  an  ascendency  over  the 
natives,  and  imparted  to  them  the  blessings  of  civiliza- 
tion. It  may  remind  us  of  the  tradition  existing 
among  the  Aztecs  in  respect  to  Quetzalcoatl,  the  good 
deity,  who  with  a  similar  garb  and  aspect  came  up  the 
groat  plateau  from  the  east  on  a  like  benevolent  mis- 
sion to  the  natives.  The  analogy  is  the  more  remark- 
able, as  there  is  no  trace  of  any  communication  with, 
or  even  knowledge  of,  each  other  to  be  found  in  the  two 
nations-. 

The  date  usually  assigned  for  these  extraordinary 
events  was  about  four  hundred  years  before  the  com- 
ing of  the  Spaniards,  or  early  in  the  twelfth  century. 
But  however  pleasing  to  the  imagination,  and  however 
popular,  the  legend  of  Manco  Capac,  it  requires  but  lit- 
tle reflection  to  show  its  improbability,  even  when  di- 
vested of  supernatural  accompaniments.  On  the  shores 
of  Lake  Titicaca  extensive  ruins  exist  at  the  present 
day,  which  the  Peruvians  themselves  acknowledge  to 
be  of  older  date  than  the  pretended  advent  of  the  Incas, 
and  to  have  furnished  them  with  the  models  of  their 
architecture.  The  date  of  their  appearance,  indeed,  is 
manifestly  irreconcilable  with  their  subsequent  history. 
No  account  assigns  the  Inca  dynasty  more  than  thir- 
teen princes  before  the  Conquest.  But  this  number  is 
altogether  too  small  to  have  spread  over  four  hundred 
years,  and  would  not  carry  back  the  foundations  of  the 
monarchy,  on  any  probable  computation  beyond  two 


158 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


centuries  and  a  half, — an  antiquity  not  incredible  in 
itself,  and  which,  it  may  be  remarked,  does  not  precede 
by  more  than  half  a  century  the  alleged  foundation  of 
the  capital  of  Mexico.  The  fiction  of  Manco  Capac  and 
his  sister- wife  was  devised,  no  doubt,  at  a  later  period, 
to  gratify  the  vanity  of  the  Peruvian  monarchs,  and  to 
give  additional  sanction  to  their  authority  by  deriving 
it  from  a  celestial  origin. 


CHAPTER  VII 
NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  of  excellent  fam- 
ily in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  on  July  4,  1804.  His 
ancestors  for  several  generations  had  been  sea  cap- 
tains, and  one  of  his  uncles  had  been  a  privateer  in 
the  Revolution.  A  remote  ancestor  was  a  lawyer 
and  a  grim  judge  in  some  of  the  witch  trials  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  family  was  noted  for  its 
Puritan  characteristics. 

Nathaniel's  father  died  when  the  boy  was  but  four 
years  old,  leaving  him  to  be  cared  for  by  his  mother, 
a  woman  of  rare  beauty  and  exceptional  intellect. 
But  his  mother  later,  for  some  reason,  retired  from 
society  and  became  a  complete  recluse.  So  his  ma- 
ternal uncle  directed  the  family  matters  and  super- 
intended young  Hawthorne's  education.  After  a 
year  or  two  spent  on  his  uncle's  estate  in  the  wilds 
of  Maine,  near  Sebago  Lake,  the  boy  returned  to 
Salem,  where  he  was  prepared  for  college.  He 
entered  Bowdoin  College  in  1821,  and  here  he  had 
among  his  mates  Horatio  Bridge,  Longfellow  and 
the  youth  afterwards  known  to  fame  as  President 
Pierce.  But  Hawthorne's  college  career  was  in  no 
respect  remarkabler  He  was  fond  of  the  classics, 
but  he  showed  no  exceptional  scholarship.  He  was 
a  desultory  reader  and  liked  outdoor  sports.  He 
possessed  a  fine  physique  and  a  robust  constitution. 
But  he  was  rather  dreamy,  extremely  sensitive  and 
diffident  and  did  not  mingle  freely  with  his  college 
mates. 


160  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

After  his  graduation,  in  1825,  Hawthorne  re- 
turned to  Salem,  where,  with  his  mother  and  two 
sisters,  he  led  a  very  secluded  life  for  the  next 
twelve  years.  He  read  and  wrote  much  during  this 
period,  but  he  usually  destroyed  what  he  wrote. 
However,  he  did  publish  anonymously  a  sopho- 
moric  romance  entitled  "Fanshawe,"  and  occasion- 
ally he  contributed  an  article  under  an  assumed 
name  to  some  of  the  periodicals,  notably  The  Knick- 
erbocker of  New  York.  But  no  one  took  any  inter- 
est in  the  stories  he  published,  or  read  them.  Still 
he  continued  to  write,  though  at  times  he  felt  keenly 
the  lack  of  appreciation,  on  the  part  of  the  reading 
public,  of  his  literary  efforts.  Finally,  a  young 
lady  living  near  him  identified  him  as  the  author  of 
"The  Gentle  Boy,"  a  sketch  which  had  appeared  in 
The  Token,  published  by  S.  G.  Goodrich.  A  few 
years  later  Hawthorne  became  engaged  to  the  sister 
of  this  young  lady ;  and  after  a  brief  experiment  of 
the  new  Brook  Farm  Community,  he  married  his 
fiancee,  Miss  Sophia  Peabody,  and  took  up  his  resi- 
dence at  the  Old  Manse,  at  Concord. 

Hawthorne's  friends  now  secured  for  him  an  ap- 
pointment as  surveyor  in  the  Salem  custom-house, 
and  partly  from  his  salary  and  partly  from  the  re- 
ceipts from  his  writings  he  published,  he  was  en- 
abled to  provide  for  the  material  wants  of  his  family. 
In  the  introduction  to  "The  Scarlet  Letter"  he  gives 
us  a  brief  sketch  of  his  official  life.  In  1849  he  lost 
his  position.  Yet  he  continued  his  literary  work 
with  all  the  greater  industry  and  ardor.  Before 
1849  he  had  already  published  four  volumes  of  short 
stories,  under  the  title  "Twice-told  Tales"  and 
"Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,"  in  addition  to  sonic 
historical  and  biographical  sketches  entitled 
"Grandfather's  Chair"  and  "Snow  Image,  and 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  161 

Other  Stories."  "The  Scarlet  Letter"  appeared  in 
1850,  and  then,  successively,  the  "House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,"  "The  Blithedale  Romance,"  "The 
Wonder  Book,"  and  "Tanglewood  Tales,"  all  within 
the  next  three  years. 

Hawthorne  was  a  staunch  Democrat,  and  when 
his  college  mate,  Franklin  Pierce,  was  a  candidate 
for  the  Presidency  he  of  course  supported  him  ar- 
dently, even  writing  a  campaign  biography  of  the 
candidate.  In  return  for  his  services,  President 
Pierce  appointed  Hawthorne  consul  at  Liverpool, 
England,  in  1853.  Accordingly,  Hawthorne  removed 
to  England,  where  he  spent  several  years.  Before 
his  term  of  office  expired  he  resigned  his  consulship 
and  crossed  the  Channel,  on  a  prolonged  visit  to 
France  and  Italy.  Returning  to  England  in  1859, 
he  wrote  his  romance,  the  "Marble  Faun,"  and  the 
following  year  sailed  for  his  native  land. 

On  his  arrival  in  America,  Hawthorne  settled  at 
The  Wayside,  a  small  estate  he  owned  at  Concord. 
Here  he  resumed  his  pen  and  began  work  on  a  new 
romance;  but  his  disquietude  from  the  Civil  War 
and  his  failing  health  compelled  him  to  put  aside 
the  undertaking  for  the  nonce.  Later  he  published 
a  volume  of  sketches  of  his  English  experiences,  un- 
der the  title  "Our  Old  Home."  Once  more  he  took 
up  the  romance  and  published  two  instalments  of  it 
in  The  Atlantic.  This  was  the  last  production  of 
his  pen  which  he  ever  saw  in  print.  For  he  died 
suddenly  in  the  spring  of  1864,  while  traveling  in 
New  Hampshire,  in  search  of  health,  his  old  friend 
Franklin  Pierce  being  with  him  when  the  end  came. 
His  "Septimus,  a  Romance,"  "American  Note- 
Books,"  "English  Note-Books,"  "French  and  Italian 
Note-Books"  and  "Doctor  Grimshaw's  Secret"  all 
appeared  after  his  death. 


162  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

So  much  for  Hawthorne's  career.  Now  as  to  a 
review  of  his  writings. 

In  one  of  his  "Twice-told  Tales"  (The  Ambitious 
Guest)  Hawthorne  speaks  of  the  hero  of  his  story 
as  possessing  a  high  and  abstracted  ambition.  Says 
the  author,  referring  to  the  eponymous  hero : 

Yearning  desire  had  been  transformed  to  hope,  and 
hope,  long  cherished,  had  become  like  certainty  that, 
obscurely  as  he  journed  now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on  all 
his  pathway,  though  not  perhaps  while  he  was  treading 
it.  But  when  posterity  should  gaze  back  into  the  gloom 
of  what  was  now  the  present,  they  would  trace  the 
brightness  of  his  footsteps,  brightening  as  meaner 
glories  faded,  and  confess  that  a  gifted  one  had  passed 
from  his  cradle  to  his  tomb  with  none  to  recognize  him. 

This  passage  is  usually  understood  as  autobio- 
graphical, and  as  containing  a  prediction  of  the  ap- 
preciation and  distinction  which  the  author's  works 
were  some  day  destined  to  enjoy.  If  this  interpre- 
tation is  correct,  and  the  passage  is  an  illusion  to 
the  writer  himself,  it  gives  an  interesting  glimpse 
into  Hawthorne's  feelings  and  aspirations  during 
that  long,  uneventful  period  of  twelve  years'  isola- 
tion and  seclusion  which,  after  his  graduation  from 
Bowdoin  College,  he  spent  in  the  quaint  old  town 
of  Salem.  Dwelling  apart  in  his  self-imposed  iso- 
lation, "the  world  forgetting  and  the  world  forgot," 
he  perhaps  felt  a  lack  of  human  sympathy  and  pub- 
lic appreciation  of  his  literary  work.  But  dis- 
heartened he  was  not.  He  had  faith  in  himself  and 
in  his  work,  and  believed  that  if  for  some  reason  or 
other  his  contemporaries  failed  to  accord  him  the 
appreciation  which  was  his  duo,  succeeding  genera- 
tions at  least  would  vote  him  his  well-deserved 
meed  of  praise. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  163 

But  Hawthorne  had  misjudged  the  American 
public.  He  was  not  "to  pass  from  his  cradle  to  his 
tomb  Avith  none  to  recognize  him";  nor  was  he  des- 
tined to  die  unhonored  and  unappreciated.  His 
twelve  years  of  retirement  at  Salem  had  made  him 
well-nigh  morbid,  though  by  nature  he  was  social 
and  friendly.  From  the  quiet  old  Massachusetts 
town  he  saw  the  world  through  the  eyes  of  a  re- 
cluse, and  to  his  blurred  and  perverted  vision  the 
world  appeared  gloomy  and  uninviting.  But  it 
was  not  so  dismal  and  gloomy  as  it  appeared;  the 
gloom  was  subjective.  A  brighter  day  was  soon  to 
dawn,  which  should  dispel  the  mist  and  gloom. 
That  day  came  with  the  publication  of  the  "Twice- 
told  Tales."  The  long  period  of  seclusion  which 
Hawthorne  spent  at  Salem  was  now  at  an  end,  but, 
it  had  served  a  useful  purpose.  It  was  the  un- 
eventful period  of  incubation  in  which  unawares 
the  young  author  was  developing  his  latent  possi- 
bilities, and  acquiring  additional  resources.  It  was 
the  wilderness  period  in  which  he  was  silently 
gathering  strength  to  be  used  as  a  reserve  force  to 
meet  the  demands  which  were  soon  to  be  made  upon 
his  genius  and  art.  It  was  a  time  of  meditation  as 
well  as  a  time  of  growth  and  development.  But  to 
young  Hawthorne,  eager  for  literary  honors,  the 
time  seemed  tedious  and  almost  unending.  Refer- 
ring to  it  some  years  later  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  he 
says  of  these  dreary  days  of  waiting:  "I  am  dis- 
posed to  thank  God  for  the  gloom  and  chill  of  my 
early  life,  in  the  hope  that  my  share  of  adversity 
came  then,  when  I  bore  it  alone."  And  again  in  his 
"English  Note-Books" : 

My  early  life  was  perhaps  a  good  preparation  for  the 
declining  half  of  life;  it  having  been  such  a  blank  that 
any  thereafter  would  compare  favorably  with  it.  For 


164  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

a  long,  long  while,  I  have  occasionally  been  visited  with 
a  singular  dream ;  and  I  have  an  impression  I  have 
dreamed  it  ever  since  I  have  been  in  England.  It  is, 
that  I  am  still  at  college,  or  sometimes-  even  at  school— 
and  there  is  a  sense  that  I  have  been  there  unconscion- 
ably long,  and  have  quite  failed  to  make  such  progress 
as  my  contemporaries  have  done;  and  I  seem  to  meet 
some  of  them  with  a  feeling  of  shame  and  depression 
that  broods  over  me  as  I  think  of  it,  even  when  awake. 
This  dream,  recurring  all  through  these  twenty  or  thirty 
years,  must  be  one  of  the  effects  of  that  heavy  seclusion 
in  which  I  shut  myself  up  for  twelve  years  after  leaving 
college,  when  everybody  moved  onward  and  left  me  be- 
hind. How  strange  that  it  should  come  now,  when  I 
may  call  myself  famous  and  prosperous! — when  I  am 
happy  too. 

In  his  firm  resolution  to  adopt  the  profession  of 
letters  at  whatever  cost,  Hawthorne  furnished  sig- 
nal proof  of  his  rare  courage  and  deep,  abiding  con- 
viction. For  in  the  forties  of  the  last  century  that 
profession  was  far  from  lucrative;  and  very  few 
men  dared  to  court  the  privation  and  invite  the  res 
(Dif/usti  domi  which  an  exclusively  literary  career  in 
those  days  invariably  involved.  Our  people  did  not 
read  books,  and  especially  fiction,  then  as  they  do 
now.  Prior  to  the  Civil  War  no  work  of  fiction, 
however  popular  it  might  be,  ever  reached  such  phe- 
nomenally large  sales  as  some  of  our  recent  Ameri- 
can novels  have  attained.  Consequently  it  was  rare 
that  a  man  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  literary 
pursuits.  Hawthorne  from  New  England  and  Poe 
from  the  South  are  the  only  two  noteworthy  in- 
stances, in  those  times,  of  men  who  had  the 
exceptional  courage  and,  love  for  letters  to  follow 
exclusively  a  literary  career.  Of  course  there  were 
many  who  wrote  for  publication,  but  they  did  not 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  165 

depend  upon  their  literary  work  for  a  livelihood. 
They  engaged  in  literary  pursuits  as  an  avocation 
rather  than  as  a  vocation.  As  for  that  matter, 
however,  not  even  Hawthorne  was  entirely  depend- 
ent upon  the  income  from  his  pen  for  a  living;  for 
he  held  a  federal  appointment  in  Salem,  his  native 
town,  and  was  subsequently  appointed  by  his  old 
college-mate,  President  Pierce,  to  a  lucrative  post 
abroad. 

But  Hawthorne,  as  already  intimated,  had  reso- 
lutely made  up  his  mind  to  devote  himself  to  the 
profession  of  letters,  to  become  an  author;  and 
though  at  first,  before  fortune  began  to  smile  upon 
him,  disappointment  only  was  his  lot,  yet  he  did 
not  become  discouraged,  or  feel  that  he  had  mis- 
taken his  calling.  He  persevered  in  the  unremun- 
erative  line  of  wrork  he  had  marked  out  for  himself, 
till  at  length  he  arrested  the  attention  of  a  reluc- 
tant and  unsympathetic  reading  public  and 
achieved  a  brilliant  success.  In  his  preface  to  the 
"Twice-told  Tales"  he  admits  that  "for  many  years 
he  was  the  obscurest  man  of  letters  in  America," 
and  in  a  sad  tone  verging  on  despair  he  asks  the 
question,  "Was  there  ever  such  delay  in  obtaining 
recognition?"  But  recognition  had  at  last  come, 
and  with  it  ample  compensation  and  reward  for 
those  long,  dreary  months  and  years  of  waiting. 

Hawthorne's  early  career  as  a  man  of  letters  does 
not  offer  anything  particularly  attractive.  It  was 
no  flowery  path  he  trod.  He  tells  us  of  the  difficul- 
ties he  encountered  in  having  his  tales  published. 
Publisher  after  publisher,  in  chilling  succession, 
declined  his  manuscript;  and  he  had  all  the  disap- 
pointments to  face  which  usually  fall  to  the  lot  of 
an  unknown  writer  aspiring  after  literary  fame.  In 
the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  the  "Twice-told 


166  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Tales/'  published  in  1851,  he  says  that  "he  had  no 
incitement  to  literary  effort  in  a  reasonable  pros- 
pect of  reputation  or  profit ;  nothing  but  the  pleas- 
ure itself  of  composition,  an  enjoyment  not  at  all 
amiss  in  its  way,  and  perhaps  essential  to  the  merit 
of  the  work  in  hand,  but  which  in  the  long  run  will 
hardly  keep  the  chill  out  of  the  writer's  heart,  or  the 
numbness  out  of  his  fingers."  But  disappointment, 
no  matter  how  bitter,  did  not  sour  him  or  make  a 
cynic  of  him.  Such  was  his  equable  temperament, 
and  such  his  sunny  disposition,  that  adversity  did 
not  greatly  depress  him  nor  prosperity  unduly 
elate  him.  Yet  he  was  not  an  optimist.  The  fact 
is,  as  Henry  James  says,  Hawthorne  cannot  strictly 
be  called  either  an  optimist  or  a  pessimist.  His 
philosophy  of  life,  if  he  may  be  said  to  have  had  one, 
was  somewhere  between  these  tAvo  extremes.  We 
cannot  concur  in  the  judgment  of  the  French 
critic,  M.  Emile  Montegut,  who  speaks  of  Haw- 
thorne as  a  romancicr  pessimiste. 

But  it  is  time  to  speak  of  our  author's  works. 
Hawthorne  made  his  first  bid  for  fame,  as  has  been 
said,  in  his  "Twice-told  Tales."  This  book  is  a 
charming  collection  of  stories.  We  should  have  to 
search  English  literature  far  and  wide  in  order  to 
find  a  collection  of  tales  that  surpasses  these  in 
spontaneity,  finish,  and  technical  execution.  As 
the  author  himself  said  of  them  : 

H 

They  are  not  the  talk  of  a  secluded  man  with  his  own 
mind  and  heart  (had  it  been  so,  they  could  hardly  have 
failed  to  be  more  deeply  and  permanent ly  valuable), 
but  his  attempts  to  open  an  intercourse  with  I  he  world. 

This  collection  was  soon  followed  by  another, 
similar  in  plan  and  eharader,  which  for  conveiii- 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  167 

ence  of  treatment  mnv  he  mentioned  here.  This 
of  course  is  "Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse."  In  his 
preface  to  these  stories  Hawthorne  says  somewhat 
apologetically : 

These  fitful  sketches,  with  so  little  of  external  life 
about  them,  yet  claiming  no  profundity  of  purpose — so 
reserved  even  Avhile  they  sometimes  seem  so  frank- 
often  but  half  in  earnest,  and  never,  even  when  most 
so,  expressing  satisfactorily  the  thoughts  which  they 
profess-  to  image — such  trifles,  I  truly  feel,  afford  no 
solid  basis  for  a  literary  reputation. 

These  tales  possess  a  rare  charm  and  beauty,  suf- 
fused with  a  soft  glow  of  imagination,  which  com- 
bines with  their  freshness  and  piquancy  to  make 
them  all  the  more  engaging  and  fascinating.  Here 
and  there  we  find  a  touch  of  weirdness  and  gro- 
tesqueness  after  the  manner  of  Poe.  Witness,  for 
example,  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil,"  "The  Birth- 
mark," "Roger  Malvin's  Burial,"  and  "Rappicini's 
Daughter."  It  is  not  meant  by  this  to  suggest  any 
trace  of  borrowing.  Hawthorne  and  Poe  were  en- 
tirely independent,  and  each  original. 

Hawthorne's  stories  will  be  found  upon  examina- 
tion to  divide  themselves  into  three  classes,  each  of 
a  different  type.  In  the  first  class  are  included  the 
stories  of  fantasy  and  allegory,  as  for  example, 
"The  Great  Carbuncle,"  "The  Seven  Vagabonds/1 
and  "The  Threefold  Destiny."  These  enjoy  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  the  author's  most  original  stories ; 
and  of  this  class  those  two  masterpieces  "Malvin's 
Burial"  and  "Rappicinfs  Daughter"  are  unques- 
tionably the  best.  These,  together  with  "Young 
Goodman  Brown,"  which  is  almost  as  fine,  are 
among  the  best  of  their  kind  in  American  literature, 
and  are  perhaps  unsurpassed  in  the  entire  range  of 


168  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

English  literature.  The  second  class,  which  falls 
but  little  below  the  first  in  interest  and  artistic  fin- 
ish, is  of  a  somewhat  historical  character,  being 
made  up  mostly  of  tales  of  New  England  history. 
Among  this  group  may  be  mentioned  "The  Gray 
Champion/7  "The  Maypole  of  Merry  Mount,"  and 
those  beautiful  legends  of  "The  Province  House. '' 
The  third  class  is  composed  of  brief  sketches  of 
local  scenes,  objects,  and  customs,  such  as,  "A  Kill 
from  the  Town  Pump,"  "The  Village  Uncle,"  "The 
Toll-gatherer's  Daughter,"  and  so  forth.  These, 
while  possessing  rare  grace  and  beauty,  are  not 
quite  so  clever  or  imaginative,  and  do  not  exhibit 
the  same  degree  of  skill  in  conception  and  execution, 
as  the  other  two  groups.  One  feels  that  if  by  any  un- 
toward accident  all  of  Hawthorne's  works  were 
blotted  out  of  existence  except  these  tales,  they 
alone  would  be  sufficient  to  reveal  to  the  world  their 
author's  genius  and  that  distinctive  quality  of  ro- 
mantic imagination  which  the  critics  call  Haw- 
thornesque.  These  stories  all  exhibit  a  considerable 
degree  of  spontaneity,  piquancy,  and  naturalness  of 
fancy,  and,  withal,  that  high  moral  tone  which  is  a 
marked  characteristic  of  Hawthorne's  writings.  It 
is  this  last-named  quality,  especially,  by  which 
Hawthorne  betrays  his  Puritan  ancestry.  He  in- 
herited from  his  Puritan  ancestors  a  conscience 
exceedingly  sensitive  to  sin.  But  along  with  this 
inherited  gift  he  possessed  a  vivid  imagination, 
which  relieved  by  its  light,  airy  touch  the  heavy 
moral  responsibility  his  Puritan  heritage  would  in- 
evitably have  imposed  upon  his  genius.  Conse- 
quently the  conscience,  which  is  so  clearly  manifest 
in  Hawthorne's  numerous  stories  dealing  with  the 
sense  of  sin  and  its  effects  upon  the  life  of  man,  is 
prevented  by  his  robust  imagination  from  serving 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  169 

as  a  clog  upon  his  genius  to  weigh  down  and  op- 
press his  spirit;  and  thus  the  depressing  effect  of 
the  sense  of  moral  obliquity  is  forestalled,  or 
thwarted.  And  whai  might  have  been  a  dull,  heavy 
story,  written  simply  to  point  a  moral,  is  trans- 
formed by  the  romantic  imagination  into  a  light, 
graceful  fancy  of  exceptional  beauty  and  clever- 
ness. Hawthorne's  romantic  imagination  there- 
fore saved  him  from  his  grim  Puritan  conscience, 
of  which  he  might  otherwise  have  become  a  haunted 
victim. 

In  the  "Scarlet  Letter"  Hawthorne  made  his  first 
attempt  at  a  long  story ;  and  he  scored  a  success  as 
lasting  and  far-reaching  as  it  was  brilliant.  Like 
Byron  upon  the  publication  of  "Childe  Harold," 
Hawthorne  awoke  to  find  himself  famous.  The  fas- 
cinating romance  heralded  the  author's  fame  abroad 
and  served  to  give  it  an  enduring  foundation  at 
home.  The  book  still  continues  to  be  read,  and  is 
counted  among  the  finest  examples  of  American  fic- 
tion. The  treatment  of  the  theme  furnishes  a  con- 
spicuous illustration  of  the  genius  of  Hawthorne. 
The  theme  itself  is  naturally  a  vulgar  and  repulsive 
subject — the  sin  of  adultery.  But  not  withstand- 
ing this  fact,  there  is  nothing  repellent  or  even  in- 
delicate in  the  book,  nothing  which  would  require  it 
to  be  placed  on  the  index  expurgatorius,  or  to  be 
forbidden  to  boys  and  girls.  So  far  is  the  story 
from  containing  any  offensive  passages  that  there 
is  perhaps  not  a  purer  piece  of  fiction  to  be  found 
in  all  English  literature.  The  author  displayed  his 
sound  moral  judgment  and  innate  good  taste  in  se- 
lecting out  of  the  possible  aspects  of  his  theme  that 
aspect  which  lends  itself  most  readily  to  wrholesome 
literary  treatment.  He  therefore  passes  over  in 
silence  the  prurient  subject  of  the  commission  of 


170  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  sin,  as  that  could  subserve  no  spiritual  purpose. 
Your  modern  realist  would  have  been  disposed  to 
give  this  considerable  prominence.  But  Haw- 
thorne, with  his  innate  good  taste,  selected  for  his 
narrative  the  interesting  theme  of  the  consequences 
of  the  sinful  act  upon  the  natures  of  the  actors. 
Closely  allied  with  this  theme,  though  subordinate, 
is  the  method  adopted  by  society  for  the  punish- 
ment of  the  woman,  together  with  the  effect  of  the 
silent  guilt  upon  the  hypocritical  minister  who  is 
tortured  by  a  guilty  conscience,  and  yet,  from  fear 
of  the  pending  disgrace  and  shame,  lacks  the  cour- 
age to  confess  his  crime.  The  author  develops  this 
idea  very  elaborately  by  numerous  artistic  devices 
which  add  much  to  the  interest  of  the  story.  The 
most  notable  of  these  is  the  scarlet  letter,  which 
he  handles  with  consummate  skill  and  effect.  This 
in  the  hands  of  an  inferior  artist  would  have  proved 
a  serious  handicap,  if  indeed  it  would  not  have  de- 
teriorated into  sheer  bathos.  In  Hawthorne's 
hands,  however,  this  symbol  contributes  vastly  to 
the  dramatic  interest  of  the  story  by  suggesting  im- 
pressions almost  too  delicate  to  be  expressed  in 
words. 

The  "Scarlet  Letter"  is  not  a  bright  or  cheerful 
novel,  despite  the  fact  that  the  interest  never  lags 
and  is  sustained  throughout  from  cover  to  cover. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  dark,  gloomy,  and  somber. 
Henry  James  says  of  it:  "It  is  densely  dark,  with 
a  single  spot  of  vivid  color  in  it;  and  it  will  proba- 
bly long  remain  the  most  consistently  gloomy  of 
English  novels  of  the  first  order."  But  though 
somber  and  sad,  it  is  yet  a  fine  piece  of  imaginative 
work,  and  is  generally  conceded  to  be  its  author's 
masterpiece.  Nothing  produced  in  American  litera- 
ture prior  to  1800  surpassed  it;  and,  indeed,  but  few 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  171 

novels  published  before  or  after  that  date  have 
emialed  it.  Though  usually  denominated  a  romance, 
the  book  is  in  no  sense  an  ordinary  love  story.  The 
chief  characters  are  Hester  Prynne  and  Arthur 
Dimmesdale,  and,  except  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
story,  the  interest  settles  around  Dimmesdale.  Lit- 
tle Pearl,  the  unique  child  of  their  illicit  union,  is 
the  most  original  character  of  the  book.  She  is  a 
distinctively  new  creation,  and  occupies  a  place 
peculiarly  her  own  in  English  fiction.  Hawthorne 
shows  a  high  degree  of  dramatic  skill  in  the  pun- 
gent, racy  interplay  of  Pearl  and  her  mother.  Chil- 
ling worth,  the  injured  husband,  is  made  a  some- 
what unnatural  minor  character,  and  however  inge- 
niously conceived,  he  is  yet  felt  to  be  a  mere  acces- 
sory figure.  Nor  does  he  enlist  our  sympathies  in 
his  behalf,  as  would  naturally  be  expected  of  an  out- 
raged husband.  Far  from  enlisting  our  sympathies, 
by  his  intriguing  and  malignant  arts  in  preying, 
vampire-like,  upon  the  miserable,  conscience-tor- 
tured minister,  Chillingworth  becomes  downright 
offensive  to  us,  and  we  almost  detest  him.  We  sym- 
pathize rather  with  the  sinning,  suffering  minister 
than  with  the  perfidious,  injured  husband.  The 
wretched  minister  carries  the  secret  guilt  of  his  own 
fall  from  purity  in  his  breast,  and  the  consciousness 
of  this  sin  gnaws  at  his  very  vitals.  Yet  to  the  out- 
side world  he  is  forced  to  live  above  reproach,  and 
thus  he  adds,  almost  perforce,  the  heinous  sin  of 
hypocrisy  to  his  already  guilt-burdened,  sin-sick 
soul. 

The  "Scarlet  Letter"  is  a  true  product  of  colonial 
New  England.  The  book  smacks  of  the  soil,  and 
was,  so  to  say,  written  by  one  to  the  manner  born. 
The  story  could  hardly  have  been  written  by  an 
author  born  outside  of  Puritan  Massachusetts.  It 


172  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

has  the  earmarks  all  through  it  which  betray  the 
locality  of  its  origin.  Not  that  it  has  any  very  de- 
cided or  unmistakable  local  coloring,  and  yet  it  has 
considerable  local  coloring;  nor  that  it  abounds  in 
provincial  locutions,  or  is  written  in  the  Yankee 
dialect,  like  Lowell's  famous  "Biglow  Papers."  On 
the  contrary,  the  language  of  Hawthorne's  romance 
is  strikingly  pure  and  chaste ;  in  a  word,  it  is  classic. 
But  the  conception  as  well  as  the  entire  setting  of 
the  book  is  Puritan ;  and  from  lid  to  lid  it  is  impreg- 
nated with  Puritan  ideas  and  breathes  the  Puritan 
spirit.  Dimmesdale,  the  leading  character  of  the 
story,  is  preeminently  a  Puritan  creation.  The 
motif  of  the  book  is  the  old  Puritan  idea  of  the  con- 
sciousness of  life  with  its  burdening  responsibilities 
and  conscience-tortured  victim.  This  is  not  intended 
in  the  nature  of  stricture  or  disparagement  of  the 
work.  Possessed  of  the  Puritan  conscience,  which 
he  inherited  from  his  ancestors,  Hawthorne  con- 
ceived the  plan  of  bodying  forth  a  certain  moral 
idea ;  and  he  very  fittingly  gave  this  idea  a  Puritan 
setting  and  reproduced  with  masterly  art  this  old- 
fashioned  manner  of  looking  upon  the  world,  with 
the  contemporary  types  of  character  now  fast  fad- 
ing, if  not  entirely  vanished.  As  a  work  of  art,  how- 
ever, the  book,  while  on  the  whole  excellent,  is  not 
absolutely  faultless.  It  invites  criticism  in  a  few 
particulars.  The  most  serious  defect  of  the  book  is 
that  the  illusion  produced  is  not  complete  or  com- 
pelling. In  reading  the  story  one  feels  a  sense  of 
unreality  about  it,  a  certain  degree  of  exaggeration. 
The  author  overstepped  the  bounds  of  art  in  his 
excessive  use  of  symbolism,  as  when  by  a  ghastly 
mystery  he  makes  the  symbol  of  the  scarlet  letter 
reveal  itself  upon  the  minister's  bosom  and  then  em- 
blazon itself  in  glowing,  flashing  characters  in  the 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  173 

heavens.  Moreover,  the  personages  of  the  romance 
are  not  as  individual,  real,  and  lifelike  as  they  might 
be.  Nor  do  they  act  and  move  upon  the  page  as  rap- 
idly and  as  vividly  as  could  be  desired.  Yet  the 
story  is  entertaining  and  at  times  exceedingly  dra- 
matic ;  but  the  interest  lies  rather  in  the  situation 
than  in  the  action  of  the  characters. 

The  "House  of  Seven  Gables,"  Hawthorne's  sec- 
ond American  novel,  is  somewhat  like  the  "Scarlet 
Letter"  in  motif  and  setting.  The  "House  of  Seven 
Gables"  is  more  elaborate,  has  more  dramatic  situa- 
tions, more  threads  of  suggestion,  in  a  word,  more 
detail,  than  its  predecessor;  but  it  is  not  so  com- 
plete. Because  of  its  elaboration,  this  novel  is  re- 
garded by  some  critics  as  Hawthorne's  finest.  The 
story  is  a  picture  of  colonial  New  England.  It  has 
an  antique  odor  about  it,  an  air  of  bygone  days.  It 
represents  a  transitional  stage  in  which  the  old 
gives  place  to  the  new,  the  shabby  and  antiquated  to 
the  fresh  and  modern.  The  picture  has  a  soft,  mel- 
low setting,  like  a  venerable,  weather-beaten  man- 
sion, in  the  cool,  dense  shade  of  a  quiet,  drowsy 
summer  evening. 

The  characters  of  the  novel  are  all  figures,  shad- 
ows, not  real  men  and  women,  though  they  exhibit  a 
certain  degree  of  life  and  action.  The  most  salient 
character  is  a  scowling,  lemon-faced  old  spinster, 
dismal,  simple,  tender-hearted,  and  poverty-stricken 
withal,  yet  unconscionably  proud  of  her  pedigree. 
In  sharp  contrast  with  her  is  a  bright,  happy,  in- 
genuous country  girl  of  sixteen  summers,  a  poor 
niece  who  has  come  to  the  old  Pyncheon  mansion  to 
visit  her  old  maid  aunt  and  brighten  her  gloomy 
home.  In  this  home  is  the  old  spinster's  eccentric 
brother,  of  feeble  intellect  and  shattered  health,  who 
has  spent  twenty  years  in  prison  for  the  murder  of 


174  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

his  uncle — a  crime  of  which  he  was  really  innocent. 
Occupying  a  room  in  the  old  house  is  a  young  man 
who  is  eager  to  take  up  the  latest  views  of  philoso- 
phy and  life,  a  faddist  who  has  dabbled  a  little  in 
every  profession  and  made  a  success  of  none.  In 
addition  to  these  characters  is  another,  a  relative  of 
the  old  spinster's,  a  judge  and  rich  banker,  highly 
esteemed  by  the  community,  but  at  heart  a  grasping, 
ambitious,  selfish  man,  little  short  of  a  hypocrite. 
These,  with  a  few  accessory  figures,  constitute  the 
ilramatis  personae  of  this  interesting  romance. 

Of  the  characters  of  the  "House  of  Seven  Gables" 
that  of  the  scowling  old  spinster,  Miss  Hephzibah 
Pyncheon,  is  unquestionably  the  most  clearly  por- 
trayed, the  most  distinctly  drawn.  Her  sad  life, 
with  its  disappointments,  poverty,  and  consequent 
humiliation,  enlists  our  sympathies;  and  we  feel 
that  in  the  sketch  of  her  character  the  romancer  has 
given  us  an  excellent  piece  of  description.  Young 
Phoebe  Pyncheon,  with  her  bright,  sunny  disposition 
is  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  dank,  musty  old  mansion. 
She  carries  with  her  the  beauty,  freshness,  and 
charm  of  a  May  morning,  and  is  by  far  the  most  at- 
tractive personage  in  the  entire  book.  As  for  Judge 
Pyncheon,  whose  portrait  is  the  most  studied  and 
elaborate  of  the  whole  group,  we  feel  that  he  is  a 
blatant  Pharisee,  a  bland  hypocrite,  masquerading 
in  the  ermine  of  the  bench.  It  may  be  observed, 
however,  by  the  way  of  parenthesis,  that  his  tragic 
end,  with  its  weird,  eerie  setting,  is  the  most  power- 
fully conceived  and  cleverly  executed  scene  in  the 
book.  In  the  skilful  blending  of  conflicting  emo- 
tions, as  exhibited  in  this  scene,  Hawthorne  has  pro- 
duced JIM  eH'eet  which  is  almost  without  a  parallel 
in  American  literature.  riifTord  Pyncheon,  the  vic- 
tim of  circumstance,  and  the  faddist,  young  Hoi- 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  175 

grove,  are  the  least  distinctly  drawn  of  all  the  per- 
sonages in  the  novel.  They  are  mere  types;  they  <!<> 
not  stand  out  upon  the  page.  But  Holgrove,  \vlm 
is  a  mere  son  of  the  earth,  a  novus  homo,  without  mi 
ttvedcnts  or  family  traditions,  serves  the  artistic 
end  of  a  foil  to  Miss  Hephzibah,  who  can  never  for- 
get her  illustrious  lineage  and  ever  piques  herself 
upon  it. 

The  moral  of  the  "House  of  Seven  Gables"  is  that 
families  that  isolate  themselves  and  cut  themselves 
off  from  association  with  the  people,  and  refuse  to 
recognize  the  broad  principle  of  the  brotherhood  of 
man,  are  destined  to  be  eventually  overwhelmed  in 
ruin  and  disaster.  The  first  member  of  the  Pynch- 
eon  house  representing  the  landed  gentry  had  com- 
mitted a  gross,  ignoble  crime  against  the  first  Maule, 
a  poor  laborer;  but  though  the  punishment  is  long 
delayed,  two  hundred  years,  the  crime  is  finally 
avenged  in  the  extinction  of  the  Pyncheon  house. 
The  pride  and  Pharisaism  of  that  family  are  at  last 
brought  down  and  dissolved  by  love,  the  universal 
solvent  for  all  difficulties,  real  or  fancied,  and  for 
all  grievances,  real  or  imaginary.  So  Holgrove  and 
Phoebe,  the  latest  descendants  of  the  two  families 
which  were  at  enmity,  agree  to  forget  the  past  and 
forestall  retribution  by  sinking  their  inherited  ani- 
mosities in  the  bonds  of  wredlock. 

Hawthorne's  third  American  novel,  the  "Blithe- 
dale  Romance,"  possesses  a  certain  historic  interest. 
The  story  grew  out  of  the  Brook  Farm  episode,  in 
which  the  novelist  himself  figured  as  a  character. 
But  it  is  not  an  accurate  account  of  the  manners  or 
of  the  people  who  established  that  once  famous  com- 
munity. While  it  is  true  that  the  picture  has  a 
historic  background,  it  is  not  true  that  the  charac- 
ters are  strictly  historic  personages.  As  a  matter 


176  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  fact,  the  men  and  women  are  the  creation  of  the 
novelist's  fancy,  heirs  of  his  own  invention.  Miles 
Coverdale,  however,  is  generally  interpreted  as  the 
counterpart  of  Hawthorne;  and  some  critics  think 
that  Zenobia  is  modeled  after  Margaret  Fuller.  But 
these  are  mere  surmises.  Certainly  Coverdale  has 
much  in  common  with  his  creator,  whether  intended 
as  a  portrait  of  Hawthorne  or  not.  He  is  portrayed 
as  a  contemplative,  observing  man,  with  an  imagin- 
ation ever  active,  who  finds  his  happiness  not  so 
much  in  actual  achievement  as  in  conceiving  plans 
and  adventures.  In  a  word,  as  some  one  has  char- 
acterized him,  he  is  half  a  poet,  half  a  critic,  and  all 
a  spectator.  Who  the  prototype  of  Hollingsworth 
was,  critics  have  not  ventured  to  determine.  In  his 
earnestness  of  purpose,  strength  of  conviction,  and 
zeal  for  reform,  he  offers  a  sharp  contrast  to  the 
somewhat  irresolute,  unconcerned  Coverdale.  Zeno- 
bia is  the  heroine  of  the  romance,  and  her  character 
is  sketched  with  more  definiteness  of  outline  than 
any  other  in  the  story.  Unlike  most  of  Hawthorne's 
characters,  she  is  not  a  mere  picture :  she  stands  out 
from  the  page,  and,  as  an  eminent  critic  has  remark- 
ed of  her,  she  is  the  nearest  approach  Hawthorne 
has  made  to  the  complete  creation  of  a  person.  She 
is  the  most  sharply  outlined  of  all  his  female  char- 
acters, and  lacks  but  little  of  being  a  woman  of  real 
flesh  and  blood,  such  as  Rubens  painted.  But,  not 
to  mention  all  the  characters,  suffice  it  to  say  that 
those  named,  together  with  the  gentle,  artless  Pris- 
cilla,  comprise  the  leading  characters  around  whom 
the  interest  of  the  story  centers. 

One  might  suppose  that  the  author  would  have 
woven  a  thread  of  satire  into  the  warp  of  his 
romance,  but  it  is  singularly  free  from  satire.  The 
social  experiment  of  the  Brook  Farm  was  certainly 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  177 

not  beyond  the  legitimate  bound  of  criticism,  and 
we  can  hardly  think  thai  I  law!  borne,  by  his  failure 
to  criticise  the  scheme,  intended  to  indicate  thereby 
his  unqualified  indorsement  of  the  theory  underly- 
i'i«r  the  establishment  of  the  once  famous  commu- 
nity. Indeed,  the  entire  purport  of  the  "Blithedale 
Romance"  seems  to  be  in  condemnation  of  the  plan. 
The  moral  of  the  book,  if  it  may  be  said  to  have  a 
moral,  is  to  show  that  by  adopting  principles  alien 
to  those  recognized  by  society  as  generally  consti- 
tuted, and  by  setting  up  abnormal  standards  based 
on  abstractions  of  individual  intellects,  we  are 
likely  to  sacrifice  those  drawn  to  us  by  strong  affin- 
ity or  generous  impulse.  The  sacrifice  of  Zenobia 
by  the  resolute  Hollingsworth  must  be  intended  to 
teach  this  lesson.  The  book  contains  many  inter- 
esting situations,  teems  with  incident,  and  like  all 
of  Hawthorne's  romances,  possesses  a  rare  charm; 
but,  after  all,  it  does  not  strike  the  reader  as  a 
strong  novel.  It  makes  the  impression  of  being 
feebly  conceived,  and  is,  in  our  judgment,  the  weak- 
est of  Hawthorne's  American  novels. 

After  the  achievement  of  three  triumphs  in  his 
American  novels,  Hawthorne,  during  his  residence 
abroad,  ventured  upon  a  new  field  in  the  production 
of  the  "Marble  Faun,"  which  was  first  published  in 
England  under  the  title  of  "Transformation."  The 
setting  of  this  charming  romance  is  Italian,  and  the 
scene  is  Rome.  The  book  contains  many  fine  pas- 
sages of  descriptive  writing,  as  accurate  as  beauti- 
ful; and  its  pages  are  eagerly  perused  by  every 
English-speaking  traveler  who  contemplates  a  visit 
to  the  Eternal  City;  for  the  "Marble  Faun"  (the 
title  is  a  misnomer  and  singularly  infelicitous) 
gives  a  very  faithful  description  of  many  of  the 
historic  monuments  and  streets  of  Rome,  and  repro- 


178  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

duces  the  locale  of  the  romance  with  an  accuracy 
and  fidelity  entirely  foreign  to  the  author's  Ameri- 
can novels.  The  city  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber, 
therefore,  is  the  background  upon  which  the  ro- 
mancer with  admirable  art  has  painted  the  four 
leading  characters  of  his  story,  Miriam  and  Dona- 
tello,  Hilda  and  Kenyon. 

Miriam  and  Donatello,  between  whom  a  kind  of 
Platonic  love  develops,  do  not  possess  much  in  com- 
mon. Miriam  is  a  strong  feminine  character,  who 
combines  a  wide  acquaintance  with  life  with  her 
exceptional  intelligence  and  power,  and  exercises  a 
strange  fascination  over  her  lover.  Donatello,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  a  gentle,  disingenuous  Italian 
youth  of  little  experience,  who  is  endowed  with  a 
peculiar  fawn-like  nature.  Over  him  Miriam  casts 
a  powerful  spell,  which  he  is  unable  to  break.  In 
keeping  with  his  impulsive  nature,  Donatello,  under 
the  influence  of  this  mysterious  spell,  murders  a  man 
whom  he  fancied  to  be  an  enemy  of  Miriam;  and 
by  the  common  secret  of  the  murder  the  two  lovers 
are  knit  together  in  a  close  friendship  which  insu- 
lates them  morally  from  society.  Kenyon,  the 
sculptor,  and  the  gentle,  innocent  Hilda,  by  their 
romance,  hold  the  reader's  attention  almost  as  com- 
pletely and  unintermittedly  as  Miriam  and  the 
fawn-man  Donatello.  The  guileless  Hilda  is  by  ac- 
cident made  a  reluctant  witness  of  the  murderous 
secret  of  Donatello  and  Miriam,  whom  she  loved  de- 
votedly. Hilda  was  a  New  England  girl  of  Puritan 
ancestry,  and  so  sensitive  was  her  Puritan  con- 
science that,  although  she  was  in  no  sense  a  partici- 
pant in  the  murder  and  was  absolutely  innocent, 
si ic  yd  felt  that  wrong-doing  had  become  a  part  of 
her  experience  in  consequence  of  the  fact  that  she 
merely  happened  to  be  a  witness  of  Donatello's 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  179 

crime.  Her  conscience  became  so  burdened  with 
her  imagined  guilt  that,  strenuous  Puritan  as  she 
was,  she  entered  St.  Peter's  and  made  a  full  confes- 
sion to  the  priest.  The  burden  was  then  removed, 
and  sh<>  became  again  free  as  before.  This  chapter 
is  the  finest  touch  of  inspiration  in  the  book,  and 
this  conception  of  Hilda's  character  is  a  mark  of 
genius.  The  sin  which  Donatello  committed 
brought  him  to  himself,  enabled  him  to  find  him- 
self, and  revealed  to  his  consciousness  a  new 
world  of  moral  obligation  of  which  he  had  never 
even  dreamed  before.  In  short,  his  nature  was  trans- 
formed, and  from  being  a  mere  fawn  destitute  of  all 
sense  of  moral  obligation,  he  became  a  man  with 
man's  distinctive  characteristic  of  a  moral  faculty. 
K( 'morse  and  passion  were  the  means  adopted  to 
awaken  and  develop  in  him  his  dormant  moral 
nature. 

The  "Marble  Faun"  is  probably  Hawthorne's 
most  popular  romance.  As  a  piece  of  imaginative 
work  it  is  admirable,  and  deserves  to  be  widely 
read ;  yet  as  a  work  of  art  it  has  some  serious  weak- 
nesses. To  begin  with,  the  story  is  weak  from  the 
point  of  view  of  narration.  The  narrative  art  re- 
quires a  story  to  move  continuously  forward,  and 
any  incident  that  fails  to  contribute  to  this  end 
must  be  eliminated.  The  progress  of  the  "Marble 
Faun"  is  too  frequently  interrupted  by  the  intro- 
duction of  incidents  that  are  mere  side  issues,  and 
the  story  seems  to  wander  and  lose  itself  in  the 
numerous  digressions  and  vague  fancies  into  which 
the  author  lapses.  The  tale  as  an  artistic  product 
lacks  directness  and  coherence.  Again,  the  ele- 
ment of  the  unreal  is  not  kept  under  control,  as  in 
the  allusions  to  Donatello's  fawn  nature.  His  de- 
lineation vacillates  between  the  fanciful  and  the 


180  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

real,  and  places  him  in  a  region  between  myth  and 
fact.  His  character  therefore  produces  a  sense  of 
unreality  in  the  mind  of  the  reader.  Moreover,  the 
action  of  the  story  wavers  between  the  realm  of 
physical  fact,  where  the  streets  of  Home  are  de- 
scribed with  the  familiarity  and  accuracy  of  a  na- 
tive resident,  and  the  airy  realm  of  imagination, 
where  everything  is  vague  and  indeterminate,  with- 
out local  habitation  or  name.  This  defect  did  not 
presumably  escape  the  observation  of  the  author 
himself,  for  in  a  letter  he  speaks  of  the  story  as  his 
"rnoonshiny  romance,"  which  is  not  an  inapt  de- 
scription. But  after  all  has  been  said  the  "Marble 
Faun"  remains  a  charming  romance,  and  contains 
some  of  the  finest  pieces  of  imaginative  writing  in 
"American  literature. 

Hawthorne  occupies  a  prominent  place  in  the 
American  republic  of  letters.  He  was  preeminently 
a  romancer.  He  can  hardly  be  called  a  novelist, 
certainly  not  in  the  strict  meaning  of  that  term. 
Like  his  gifted  contemporary,  Poe,  he  did  not,  per- 
haps he  could  not,  write  a  first-class  novel.  In 
their  genius  and  art  these  two  men  of  letters  have 
some  points  of  contact  and  some  of  departure.  They 
both  combined  a  vivid,  strong  imagination  with  an 
exquisite  artistic  sense.  It  seems,  however,  that 
Poe  had  a  more  exuberant  and  robust  imagination. 
Indeed,  this  faculty  in  him  was  abnormally  devel- 
oped. We  see  indications  of  it  in  the  intricate  plots 
of  his  tales.  His  genius  was  speculative,  ratiocina- 
tive,  and  analytical.  Hawthorne,  on  the  other 
and,  inclined  to  simplicity  and  directness ;  and  his 
mind  \vj;s  less  constructive,  and  not  at  all  analyt- 
iV.il.  His  stories  therefore  all  have  simple  plots, 
with  few  accessory  devices.  The  creations  of  Poe's 
invention  are  like  marble  statues,  beautiful  and  pol- 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORN!)  181 

ished,  but  cold  and  without  feeling.  They  are 
studies  in  black  mid  white,  without  color  or  expres- 
sion. The  creations  of  Hawthorne's  genius  are  per- 
haps not  so  polished,  but  they  posseess  color  and 
warmth  and  have  more  inspiration  and  life.  His 
canvas  is  always  suffused  with  the  warm,  rosy  glow 
of  imagination,  while  Poe's,  though  finished  and 
perfect  in  technical  execution,  is  as  cold  as  an  icicle 
and  without  the  slightest  trace  of  color. 

Hawthorne  was  something  of  a  moralist.  His 
romances  all  have  a  moral  purpose,  as  have  also 
most  of  his  short  stories.  But  the  moral  is  not  ob- 
trusive, and  does  not  detract  from  the  interest  of 
the  story.  The  moral  purpose  is  kept  below  the 
surface,  so  as  not  to  arouse  the  reader's  suspicion. 
Still  it  is  present,  and  if  the  reader  will  dive  below 
the  surface,  he  may  with  no  great  effort  discover  it. 
However,  this  kind  of  moral  is  not  offensive  to  good 
taste,  concealed  as  it  is  by  the  author's  spontaneous 
and  glowing  imagination.  The  conscience  was 
Hawthorne's  theme,  but  he  clothed  it  in  the  soft, 
airy  woof  of  his  creative  fancy;  and  far  from  being 
didactic,  dull,  or  jejune,  he  rendered  it  all  the  more 
interesting  and  engaging. 

Hawthorne's  romances  do  not  appear  to  have 
been  written  to  portray  characters.  Indeed,  the 
romancer  is  weak  in  characterization.  Like  Poe, 
Hawthorne  never  created  a  character  which  is  des- 
tined to  live,  such  as  Becky  Sharp  or  Wilkins  Mi- 
cawber,  those  inspired  creations  of  Thackeray  and 
Dickens,  respectively.  Hawthorne's  characters  are 
more  in  the  nature  of  types  than  individuals.  For 
the  most  part,  they  lack  definition  and  sharpness  of 
outline.  They  are  somewhat  vague  and  shadowy; 
nor  do  they  live  and  move  before  the  reader's  eye, 
like  real  men  and  women.  Themselves  creations  of 


182  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

a  glowing  fancy,  fashioned  out  of  moonshine,  they 
do  not  invite  inspection  in  broad  daylight,  but  need 
to  be  viewed  through  the  shadowy  twilight  of 
romance  to  be  appreciated  fully.  They  therefore 
appear  at  their  best,  not  in  the  dazzling  glare  of 
the  noonday  sunlight,  but  in  the  pale,  eerie  moon- 
light in  which  they  stand  half  revealed  and  half  ob- 
scured. This  is  probably  what  the  author  himself 
had  in  mind  when  in  reference  to  his  own  work  he 
used  the  suggestive  phrase,  "the  moonlight  of  ro- 
mance." It  was  this  characteristic  of  his  work, 
also,  that  induced  critics  to  apply  to  him  the  title 
of  psychological  dreamer.  But  this  is  simply  a  de- 
fect of  his  mental  equipment,  and  shows  the  poetic 
nature  of  his  genius,  his  idealistic  affinities. 

Hawthorne's  genius  differs  vastly  from  that  of 
Thackeray  or  Dickens,  names  which  stand  at  the 
very  top  of  English  writers  of  fiction.  Consum- 
mate masters  of  the  art  of  prose  fiction,  they  could, 
by  the  interaction  of  the  personages  they  portrayed 
upon  their  pages,  put  before  the  reader  a  veritable 
prose  drama,  with  all  its  intricate  parts  leading  up 
to  the  development  and  denouement  of  the  plot. 
But  Hawthorne,  though  endowed  with  a  rare  crea- 
tive imagination,  lacked  this  inimitable  power,  this 
distinguishing  mark  of  genius,  which  only  the  mas- 
ter novelists  possess.  He  could  paint  dramatic 
situations,  interesting,  yea  thrilling,  scenes ;  but  he 
lacked  that  essential  and  distinguishing  gift  by 
which  the  novelist  makes  his  characters  live,  move, 
and  act  their  respective  parts  till  they  bring  about 
the  final  consummation  of  the  plot. 

Hawthorne's  fanjgoj;  stories,  his  romances,  will  be 
found  upon  close  analysis  to  be  much  the  same  as 
liis  short  tales.  The  curly  tales  are  of  course  very 
much  shorter,  but  contain  all  the  essentials  of  his 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  183 

romances.  The  difference  is  quantitative,  rather 
than  qualitative.  The  romances  are  simply  a 
series  of  dramatic  situations  approximating  the 
length  of  a  novel,  but  wanting  the  essential  attribute 
of  the  novel,  namely,  the  development  of  a  plot. 
They  are  merely  drawn  out;  they  do  not  unfold  or 
grow  from  \\ilhin  out.  Hawthorne's  stories,  there- 
fore, are  not  novels  in  the  restricted  acceptation  of 
that  term ;  they  are  romances.  Moreover,  it  is  note- 
wrorthy  that  the  series  of  dramatic  situations  con- 
stituting his  longer  stories  or  romances  are  designed 
by  the  author  to  impress  upon  the  reader  the  lead- 
ing idea  of  the  story,  the  theme.  The  situations, 
therefore,  are  ideal  situations,  all  having  this  one 
end  in  view.  For  example,  the  leading  thought  of 
the  "Scarlet  Letter"  is  the  effect  of  the  sin  of  adul- 
tery, which  is  set  forth  in  three  or  four  dramatic 
situations  of  great  power.  So  in  the  "House  of 
Seven  Gables,"  and  in  the  other  two  romances,  the 
principal  idea  of  the  respective  stories  is  elaborated 
by  a  series  of  dramatic  situations  invented  for  the 
purpose.  This  repetition  of  the  leading  idea  of  his 
romance  is  the  method  the  author  adopted  for  pro- 
ducing the  haunting  effect  so  characteristic  of  his 
stories. 

However,  we  are  forced  to  admit  in  conclusion 
that  Hawthorne  has  enjoyed  a  remarkable  vogue. 
He  has  been  read,  and  is  even  yet  read,  almost  as 
much  as  any  other  American  writer  of  fiction.  He 
may  be  eclipsed  for  a  brief  period  by  some  new  star 
that  shoots  like  a  meteor  across  the  literary  heav- 
ens, but  he  is  not  extinguished.  When  the  meteor 
has  spent  its  force  and  disappeared,  his  star  is  still 
seen  shining  with  its  accustomed  luster,  and  shows 
no  sign  of  a  waning  brilliance.  Why  is  it,  then, 
that  amid  the  vast  flood  of  present-day  fiction  which 


184  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

threatens  to  deluge  the  reading  public  Hawthorne 
continues  to  hold  his  own?  The  answer  is,  Because 
he  put  himself  into  his  works,  made  them  reflect 
his  own  vision  of  life,  with  his  moral  seriousness 
and  devotion  to  life's  noblest  aspirations,  and  irra- 
diated those  works  with  the  warm  glow  of  his  exu- 
berant imagination.  His  charming  art,  his  exquis- 
ite beauty,  his  originality,  his  delicate  humor,  his 
purity  of  thought,  his  chasteness  of  language,  and 
his  lofty  moral  tone — these  all  combine  to  give  his 
work  an  enduring  quality  which  will  insure  its 
popularity  so  long  as  imaginative  writing  is  read 
and  appreciated. 


HAWTHOKNE 
THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER 

The  lover  of  the  moral  picturesque  may  sometimes 
find  what  he  seeks  in  a  character  which  is  neverthe- 
less of  too  negative  a  description  to  be  seized  upon 
and  represented  to  the  imaginative  vision  by  word 
j uiin ting.  As  an  instance,  I  remember  an  old  man 
who  carries  on  a  little  trade  of  gingerbread  and 
apples  at  the  depot  of  one  of  our  railroads.  While 
awaiting  the  departure  of  the  cars,  my  observation, 
itting  to  and  fro  among  the  livelier  characteristics 
of  the  scene,  has  often  settled  insensibly  upon  this 
almost  hueless  object.  Thus,  unconsciously  to  myself 
and  unsuspected  by  him,  I  have  studied  the  old  apple 
dealer  until  he  has  become  a  naturalized  citizen  of  my 
inner  world.  How  little  would  he  imagine — poor, 
neglected,  friendless,  unappreciated,  and  with  little 
that  demands  appreciation — that  the  mental  eye  of 
an  utter  stranger  has  so  often  reverted  to  his  figure! 
Many  a  noble  form,  many  a  beautiful  face,  has  flitted 
before  me  and  vanished  like  a  shadow.  It  is  a  strange 
witchcraft  whereby  this  faded  and  featureless  old  apple 
dealer  has  gained  a  settlement  in  my  memory. 

He  is  a  small  man,  with  gray  hair  and  gray  stubble 
beard,  and  is  invariably  clad  in  a  shabby  surtout  of 
snuff  color,  closely  buttoned,  and  half  concealing  a 
pair  of  gray  pantaloons;  the  whole  dress,  though 
clean  and  entire,  being  evidently  flimsy  with  much 
wear.  His  face,  thin,  withered,  furrowed,  and  with 
features  which  even  age  has  failed  to  render  impres- 
sive, has  a  frost-bitten  aspect.  It  is  a  moral  frost 
which  no  physical  warmth  or  comfortableness  could 
counteract.  The  summer  sunshine  may  fling  its  white 
heat  upon  him,  or  the  good  fire  of  the  depot  room  may 


186  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

make  him  the  focus  of  its  blaze  on  a  winter's  day ;  but 
all  in  vain ;  for  still  the  old  man  looks  as  if  he  were  in 
a  frosty  atmosphere,  with  scarcely  warmth  enough  to 
keep  life  in  the  region  about  his  heart.  It  is  a  patient, 
long-suffering,  quiet,  hopeless,  shivering  aspect. 
He  is  not  desperate, — that,  though  its  etymology  im- 
plies no  more,  would  be  too  positive  an  expression, — 
but  merely  devoid  of  hope.  As  all  his  past  life,  prob- 
ably, offers  no  spots  of  brightness  to  his  memory,  so 
he  takes  his  present  poverty  and  discomfort  as  en- 
tirely a  matter  of  course:  he  thinks  it  the  definition 
of  existence,  so  far  as  himself  is  concerned,  to  be  poor, 
cold,  and  uncomfortable.  It  may  be  added,  that  time 
has  not  thrown  dignity  as  a  mantle  over  the  old  man's 
figure :  there  is  nothing  venerable  about  him :  you  pity 
him  without  a  scruple. 

He  sits  on  a  bench  in  the  depot  room;  and  before 
him,  on  the  floor,  are  deposited  two  baskets  of  a  capac- 
ity to  contain  his  whole  stock  in  trade.  Across  from 
one  basket  to  the  other  extends  a  board,  on  which  is 
displayed  a  plate  of  cakes  and  gingerbread,  some  rus- 
set and  red-cheeked  apples,  and  a  box  containing 
variegated  sticks  of  candy,  together  with  that  delec- 
table condiment  known  by  children  as  Gibraltar  rock, 
neatly  done  up  in  white  paper.  There  is  likewise  a 
half-peck  measure  of  cracked  walnuts  and  two  or 
three  tin  half  pints  or  gills-  filled  with  the  nut  kernels, 
ready  for  purchasers.  Such  are  the  small  commodi- 
ties with  which  our  old  friend  comes  daily  before  the 
world,  ministering  to  its  petty  needs  and  little  freaks 
of  appetite,  and  seeking  thence  the  solid  subsistence 
— so  far  as  he  may  subsist — of  his  life. 

A  slight  observer  would  speak  of  the  old  man's  quie- 
tude; but,  on  closer  scrutiny,  you  discover  that  there 
is  a  continual  unrest  within  him.  which  somewhat  re- 
sembles the  fluttering  action  of  the  nerves  in  a  corpse 
from  which  life  has  recently  departed.  Though  he 
never  exhibits  any  violent  aetion,  and,  indeed,  might 
api>ear  to  be  sitting  quite  still,  yet  you  perceive,  when 


NAT  I  IAN  IK  I.    HAWTHORNE  187 

his  minuter  peculiarities  begin  to  be  detected,  that  he 
is  always  making  some  little  movement  or  other.  He 
looks  anxiously  at  his  plate  of  cakes  or  pyramid  of 
apples  and  slightly  alters  their  arrangement,  with  an 
evident  idea  that  a  great  deal  depends  on  their  being 
disposed  exactly  Urns  and  so.  Then  for  a  moment  he 
gazes  out  of  the  window;  then  he  shivers-  quietly  and 
folds  his  anus  across  his  breast,  as  if  to  draw  himself 
closer  within  himself,  and  thus  keep  a  flicker  of  warmth 
in  his  lonesome  heart.  Now  he  turns  again  to  his  mer- 
chandise of  cakes1,  apples,  and  candy,  and  discovers 
that  this  cake  or  that  apple,  or  yonder  stick  of  red 
and  white  candy,  has  somehow  got  out  of  its  proper 
position.  And  is  there  not  a  walnut  kernel  too  many 
or  too  few  in  one  of  those  small  tin  measures?  Again 
the  whole  arrangement  appears  to  be  settled  to  his 
mind;  but,  in  the  course  of  a  minute  or  two,  there 
will  assuredly  be  something  to  set  right.  At  times, 
by  an  indescribable  shadow  upon  his  features,  too 
quiet,  however,  to  be  noticed  until  you  are  familiar 
with  his  ordinary  aspect,  the  expression  of  frost-bitten, 
patient  despondency  becomes  very  touching.  It  seems 
as  if  just  at  that  instant  the  snspicion  occurred  to  him 
that,  in  his  chill  decline  of  life,  earning  scanty  bread 
by  selling  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  he  is  a  very  miser- 
able old  fellow. 

But,  if  he  think  so,  it  is  a  mistake.  He  can  never 
suffer  the  extreme  of  misery,  because  the  tone  of  his 
whole  being  is  too  much  subdued  for  him  to  feel  any- 
thing acutely. 

Occasionally  one  of  the  passengers,  to  while  away  a 
tedious  interval,  approaches  the  old  man,  inspects  the 
articles  upon  his  board,  and  even  peeps  curiously  into 
the  two  baskets.  Another,  striding  to  and  fro  along 
the  room,  throws  a  look  at  the  apples  and  gingerbread 
at  every  turn.  A  third,  it  may  be  of  a  more  sensitive 
and  delicate  texture  of  being,  glances  shyly  thither- 
ward, cautious  not  to  excite  expectations  of  a  pur- 
chaser while  yet  undetermined  whether  to  buy.  But 


188  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

there  appears  to  be  no  need  of  such  a  scrupulous  re- 
gard to  our  old  friend's  feelings.  True,  he  is  con- 
scious of  the  remote  possibility  to  sell  a  cake  or  an 
apple;  but  innumerable  disappointments  have  ren- 
dered him  so  far  a  philosopher,  that,  even  if  the  pur- 
chased article  should  be  returned,  he  will  consider  it 
altogether  in  the  ordinary  train  of  events1.  He  speaks 
to  none,  and  makes  no  sign  of  offering  his  wares  to  the 
public:  not  that  he  is  deterred  by  pride,  but  by  the 
certain  conviction  that  such  demonstrations  would  not 
increase  his  custom.  Besides,  this  activity  in  business 
would  require  an  energy  that  never  could  have  been 
a  characteristic  of  his  almost  passive  disposition  even 
in  youth.  Whenever  an  actual  customer  appears  the 
old  man  looks  up  with  a  patient  eye:  if  the  price  and 
the  article  are  approved,  he  is  ready  to  make  change; 
otherwise  his  eyelids  droop  again  sadly  enough,  but 
with  no  heavier  despondency  than  before.  He  shivers, 
perhaps  folds  his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  body,  and 
resumes-  the  lifelong,  frozen  patience  in  which  consists 
his  strength.  Once  in  a  while  a  school  -  boy  comes 
hastily  up,  places  a  cent  or  two  upon  the  board,  and 
takes  up  a  cake,  or  stick  of  candy,  or  a  measure  of 
walnuts,  or  an  apple  as  red  cheeked  as  himself.  There 
are  no  words  as  to  price,  that  being  as  well  known  to 
the  buyer  as  to  the  seller.  The  old  apple  dealer  never 
speaks  an  unnecessary  word :  not  that  he  is  sullen  and 
morose;  but  there  is  none  of  the  cheeriness  and  brisk- 
ness in  him  that  stirs  up  people  to  talk. 

Not  seldom  he  is  greeted  by  some  old  neighbor,  a 
man  well  to  do  in  the  world,  who  makes  a  civil,  pat- 
ronizing observation  about  the  weather;  and  then,  by 
way  of  performing  a  charitable  deed,  begins  to  chall'cr 
for  an  apple.  Our  friend  presumes  not  on  any  past 
acquaintance;  he  makes  the  briefest  possible  response 
to  all  general  remarks,  and  shrinks  quietly  into  him- 
self again.  After  every  diminution  of  his  stock  lie 
takes  care  to  produce  from  the  basket  another  rako, 
another  stick  of  candy,  another  apple,  or  another  mcas- 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORN!]  189 

lire  of  walnuts,  in  supply  the  place  of  the  article  sold. 
Two  or  three  attempts-  -or.  perchance,  half  a.  dozen 

are  requisite  before  the  board  can  be  rearranged 
to  his  satisfaction.  If  he  have  received  a  silver  coin, 
he  Avails  till  the  purchaser  is  out  of  sight,  then  he  ex- 
amines it  closely,  and  tries  to  bend  it  with  his  finger 
and  thumb :  finally  he  puts  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket 
with  seemingly  a  gentle  sigh.  This  sigh,  so  faint  as 
to  be  hardly  perceptible,  and  not  expressive  of  any 
definite  emotion,  is  the  accompaniment  and  conclusion 
of  all  his  actions.  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  chillness 
and  torpid  melancholy  of  his  old  age,  which  only  make 
themselves  felt  sensibly  when  his  repose  is  slightly 
disturbed. 

Our  man  of  gingerbread  and  apples  is  not  a  speci- 
men of  the  "needy  man  who  has  seen  better  days." 
Doubtless  there  have  been  better  and  brighter  days  in 
the  far-off  time  of  his  youth;  but  none  with  so  much 
sunshine  of  prosperity  in  them  that  the  chill,  the  de- 
pression, the  narrowness  of  means,  in  his  declining 
years,  can  have  come  upon  him  by  surprise.  His  life 
has  all  been  of  a  piece.  His  subdued  and  nerveless 
boyhood  prefigured  his  abortive  prime,  which  likewise 
contained  within  itself  the  prophecy  and  image  of  his 
lean  and  torpid  age.  He  was  perhaps  a  mechanic,  who 
never  came  to  be  a  master  in  his  craft,  or  a  petty 
tradesman,  rubbing  onward  between  passably  to  do 
and  poverty.  Possibly  he  may  look  back  to  some 
brilliant  epoch  of  his  career  when  there  were  a  hun- 
dred or  two  of  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  Savings 
Bank.  Such  must  have  been  the  extent  of  his  better 
fortune — his  little  measure  of  this  world's  triumphs 
— all  that  he  has  known  of  success.  A  meek,  down- 
cast, humble,  uncomplaining  creature,  he  probably  has 
never  felt  himself  entitled  to  more  than  so  much  of 
the  gifts  of  Providence.  Is  it  not  still  something  that 
he  has  never  held  out  his  hand  for  charity,  nor  has  yet 
been  driven  to  that  sad  home  and  household  of  Earth's 
forlorn  and  broken-spirited  children,  the  almshouse? 


190  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

He  cherishes  no  quarrel,  therefore,  with  his  destiny, 
nor  with  the  Author  of  it.  All  is  as  it  should  be. 

If,  indeed,  he  have  been  bereaved  of  a  son,  a  bold, 
energetic,  vigorous  young  man,  on  whom  the  father's 
feeble  nature  leaned  as  on  a  staff  of  strength,  in  that 
case  he  may  have  felt  a  bitterness  that  could  not  oth- 
erwise have  been  generated  in  his-  heart.  But  nie- 
thinks  the  joy  of  possessing  such  a  son  and  the  agony 
of  losing  him  would  have  developed  the  old  man's 
moral  and  intellectual  nature  to  a  much  greater  de- 
gree than  we  now  find  it.  Intense  grief  appears  to 
be  as  much  out  of  keeping  with  his  life  as  fervid  hap- 
piness. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  is  not  the  easiest  matter  in 
the  world  to  define  and  individualize  a  character  like 
this  which  we  are  now  handling.  The  portrait  must 
be  so  generally  negative  that  the  most  delicate  pencil 
is  likely  to  spoil  it  by  introducing  some  too  positive 
tint.  Every  touch  must  be  kept  down,  or  else  you 
destroy  the  subdued  tone  which  is  absolutely  essential 
to  the  whole  effect.  Perhaps  more  may  be  done  by 
contrast  than  by  direct  description.  For  this  purpose 
I  make  use  of  another  cake  and  candy  merchant,  who 
likewise  infests  the  railroad  depot.  This  latter  wor- 
thy is  a  very  smart  and  well-dressed  boy  of  ten  years 
old  or  thereabouts,  who  skips  briskly  hither  and  thither, 
addressing  the  passengers  in  a  pert  voice,  yet  with 
somewhat  of  good  breeding  in  his  tone  and  pronun- 
ciation. Now  he  has  caught  my  eye,  and  skips  across 
the  room  with  a  pretty  pertness  which  I  should  like  to 
correct  with  a  box  on  the  ear.  "Any  cake,  sir?  any 
candy?" 

No,  none  for  me,  my  lad.  I  did  but  glance  at  your 
brisk  figure  in  order  to  catch  a  reflected  light  and 
throw  it  upon  your  old  rival  yonder. 

Again,  in  order  to  invest  my  conception  of  the  old 
man  with  a  more  decided  sense  of  reality,  I  look  at 
him  in  the  very  moment  of  intensest  bustle,  on  the 
arrival  of  the  cars.  The  shriek  of  the  engine  as  it 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  191 

rushes  into  the  car-house  is  the  utterance  of  the  steam 
tiend,  whom  man  lias  subdued  by  magic  spells  and 
compels  to  serve  as  a  beast  of  burden.  He  has 
skimmed  rivers  in  his  headlong  rush,  dashed  through 
forests,  plunged  into  the  hearts  of  mountains,  and 
glanced  from  the  cily  to  the  desert-place,  and  again 
to  a  far-off  city,  with  a  meteoric  progress,  seen  and 
out  of  sight,  while  his  reverberating  roar  still  fills 
the  ear.  The  travellers  swarm  forth  from  the  cars. 
All  are  full  of  the  momentum  which  they  have  caught 
from  their  mode  of  conveyance.  It  seems  as  if  the 
whole  world,  both  morally  and  physically,  were  de- 
tached from  its  old  standfasts  and  set  in  rapid  motion. 
And,  in  the  midst  of  this  terrible  activity,  there  sits 
the  old  man  of  gingerbread;  so  subdued,  so  hopeless, 
so  without  a  stake  in  life,  and  yet  not  positively  miser- 
able,— there  he  sits,  the  forlorn  old  creature,  one  chill 
and  sombre  day  after  another,  gathering  scanty  cop- 
pers for  his  cakes,  apples,  and  candy, — there  sits  the 
old  apple  dealer,  in  his  threadbare  suit  of  snuff  color 
and  gray  and  his  grizzly  stubble  beard.  See!  he  folds 
his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  figure  with  that  quiet 
sigh  and  that  scarcely  perceptible  shiver  which  are 
the  tokens  of  his  inward  state.  I  have  him  now.  He 
and  the  steam  fiend  are  each  other's  antipodes;  the 
latter's  the  type  of  all  that  go  ahead,  and  the  old  man 
the  representative  of  that  melancholy  class  who,  by 
some  sad  witchcraft,  are  doomed  never  to  share  in  the 
world's  exulting  progress.  Thus  the  contrast  between 
mankind  and  this  desolate  brother  becomes  picturesque, 
and  even  sublime. 

And  now  farewell,  old  friend!  Little  do  you  sus- 
pect that  a  student  of  human  life  has  made  your  char- 
acter the  theme  of  more  than  one  solitary  and  thought- 
ful hour.  Many  would  say  that  you  have  hardly  in- 
dividuality enough  to  be  the  object  of  your  own  self- 
love.  How,  then,  can  a  stranger's  eye  detect  anything 
in  your  mind  and  heart  to  study  and  to  wonder  at? 
Yet,  could  I  read  but  a  tithe  of  what  is  written  there, 


192  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

it  would  be  a  volume  of  deeper  and  more  compre- 
hensive import  than  all  that  the  wisest  mortals  have 
given  to  the  world;  for  the  soundless  depths  of  the 
human  soul  and  of  eternity  have  an  opening  through 
your  breast.  God  be  praised,  were  it  only  for  your 
sake,  that  the  present  shapes  of  human  existence  are 
not  cast  in  iron  nor  hewn  in  everlasting  adamant,  but 
moulded  of  the  vapors  that  vanish  away  while  the  es- 
sence flits  upward  to  the  Infinite.  There  is  a  spiritual 
essence  in  this  gray  and  lean  old  shape  that  shall  flit 
upward  too.  Yes;  doubtless  there  is  a  region  where 
the  lifelong  shiver  will  pass  away  from  his  being,  and 
that  quiet  sigh,  which  it  has  taken  him  so  many  years 
to  breathe,  will  be  brought  to  a  close  for  good  and  alL 


CHAPTER  VIII 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

The  historic  old  town  of  Concord  is  the  literary 
Mecca  of  New  England.  Few  places  in  America 
are  richer  in  historic  association,  or  have  more  in- 
teresting literary  traditions  clustering  about  them, 
than  this  quaint,  typical  New  England  town.  Every 
true  American  must  feel  his  breast  swell  writh 
patriotism  as  he  visits  Lexington  and  Concord  and 
observes  on  all  sides  the  many  reminders  of  our 
hard-fought  battles  for  American  Independence. 
At  the  bridge  hard  by  the  town  are  two  monuments 
marking  the  spot:— 

"Where  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world." 

But  the  literary  traditions  and  associations  of 
the  place  are  quite  as  interesting  as  the  historic. 
AVhat  a  group  of  names  famous  in  the  history  of 
American  literature  occurs  to  our  minds  at  the  very 
mention  of  Concord!  How  the  pulse  is  quickened 
and  the  imagination  kindled  as  soon  as  we  set  foot 
on  the  ground  once  daily  trod  by  men  and  women 
whose  names  loom  large  in  our  literary  annals !  Of 
these,  however,  none  has  greater  drawing  power 
than  Emerson  whose  haunts  and  last  resting  place 
in  Sleepy  Hollow  are  almost  as  much  frequented  as 
Mount  Vernon. 

A  man  may  choose  the  place  of  his  residence,  but 
he  has  no  choice  as  to  his  birthplace.  Nature  was 


194  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

kind  to  the  seer  of  Concord,  in  permitting  him  to  be 
born  in  Boston  (near  the  place  he  esteemed  above 
all  others),  where  the  sweet  light  of  this  world 
greeted  his  eyes  on  a  May  morning,  1803,  now  a 
century  agone.  His  father,  Reverend  William 
Emerson,  was  pastor  of  a  church  in  Boston  at  the 
time  of  the  child's  birth.  Emerson's  ancestors  for 
several  generations  back  were  of  the  clerical  order. 
It  is  not  surprising  therefore  that  Ealph  Waldo 
should  have  inherited  a  disposition  almost  angelic, 
which  he  is  reputed  to  have  possessed.  He  is  said 
to  have  been  so  naturally  good  that  he  hardly  knew 
temptation  and  was  acquainted  with  the  effect  of 
evil  in  others  only  by  observation.  We  are  told 
that  he  had  no  personal  experience  of  the  tendency 
to  evil  in  human  nature,  that  he  was  so  far  from 
being  virtuous  that  he  was  pure  and  good  spontane- 
ously, like  beings  that  cannot  sin.  If  then  it  be 
true,  as  reported,  that  Emerson  was  that  rare  phe- 
nomenon, a  man  of  pure  human  innocence  who 
always  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  siren  voice  of  sin  so 
fascinating  to  ordinary  mortals,  small  wonder  that 
he  made  a  profound  impression  on  his  disciples  and 
was  regarded  as  almost  outside  the  pale  of  moral 
law. 

His  father  dying  when  young  Emerson  was  but 
eight  years  old,  his  aunt,  Mary  Moody  Emerson,  and 
her  friend,  Sarah  Bedford,  both  women  of  singular 
earnestness  and  fine  classical  scholarship,  prepared 
the  boy  for  college.  At  the  tender  age  of  fourteen 
he  entered  Harvard.  There  he  applied  himself  dili- 
gently of  course,  but  did  not  distinguish  himself 
above  his  fellows.  He  showed  a  fondness  for  the 
classics,  but  disliked  mathematics.  Montaigne  and 
UK*  poets  he  read  with  keen  zest.  He  did  not  con- 
fine himself  to  the  curriculum  in  his  intellectual 


KALI' 1 1    WALDO   EMERSON  195 

training.  lie  acted  on  the  principle  enunciated 
later  in  his  life:  "What  we  do  not  call  education  is 
more  gracious  than  what  we  do  call  so."  It  is  sig- 
nificant that  the  office  of  class  poet  fell  to  his  lot 
on  the  occasion  of  his  graduation. 

After  his  graduation  Emerson  began  to  teach 
school  for  a  livelihood  (an  occupation  which  count- 
less young  men  and  women  fall  back  upon  to  tide 
over  an  impecunious  period  of  indecision).  After 
two  years'  experience  at  teaching  he  decided  to  pre- 
pare himself  in  obedience  to  a  call  to  the  ministry. 
After  studying  under  the  direction  of  Dr.  William 
Ellery  Channing,  Emerson  was  ready  to  enter  the 
Unitarian  pulpit,  when  only  twenty  years  old.  But 
at  this  juncture,  failing  health  compelled  him  to 
seek  a  milder  climate;  and  so  he  spent  the  following 
winter  or  two  in  South  Carolina  and  Florida.  He 
preached  several  times  during  his  sojourn  in  the 
South  and,  upon  his  return  home  in  1826,  he  was 
"approbated  to  preach."  After  several  trial  sermons 
preached  at  various  points  in  his  native  State,  he 
received  a  call  to  the  pastorate  of  the  Second 
Church,  in  Boston. 

Emerson  had  scarcely  become  settled  as  a  minis- 
ter in  Boston  before  a  dark  shadow  was  thrown 
across  his  path  by  the  early  death  of  his  wife,  in 
1832,  after  three  all  too  brief  years  of  married  life. 
A  few  months  after  this  sad  event,  perplexed  by 
theological  doubts  concerning  the  Lord's  Supper, 
he  resigned  his  pastorate  and  determined  to  strike 
out  in  a  new  field  where  he  would  be  untrammeled 
by  religious  traditions  and  free  to  think  and  act  as 
his  conscience  dictated. 

He  thereupon  visited  Europe.  Here  he  met  a 
number  of  distinguished  men  of  letters,  including 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Landor,  De  Quincey,  and 


196 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


Carlyle.  Of  these  his  acquaintance  with  Carlyle 
ripened  into  a  friendship  which  was  fostered  by  a 
correspondence  till  death.  In  the  winter  of  18334 
Emerson  returned  to  America  with  his  mind  brim- 
ful of  impressions  and  his  heart  of  inspiration.  He 
settled  in  Concord,  taking  up  his  residence  in  the 
"Old  Manse."  This  quaint,  old-fashioned  gambrel- 
roof  house  (still  standing)  was  built  years  ago  for 
Emerson's  grandfather,  the  shepherd  of  the  Concord 
flock;  and  in  one  of  its  rooms  Emerson  wrote  "Na- 
ture," and  it  is  interesting  to  note  in  passing  that 
Hawthorne  later  wrote  his  famous  "Mosses  from 
an  Old  Manse"  in  this  same  room. 

Immediately  on  his  return  to  his  native  heath 
Emerson  decided  to  appear  in  a  new  role,  that  of  a 
Lyceum  lecturer.  This  role  was  destined  to  be  his 
vocation  for  the  next  forty-six  years.  In  his  early 
repertoire  he  included  such  subjects  as  "Water," 
"The  Kelation  of  Man  to  the  Globe,"  "Michael  An- 


gelo,"    "Milton,"    "Luther,' 


"George 


Fox,"    and 


"Edmund  Burke."  In  these  lectures  are  contained 
the  germs  of  many  of  the  thoughts  which  the  seer 
afterwards  expanded  into  separate  productions, 
both  prose  and  verse. 

If  it  be  true,  according  to  Holmes'  dictum,  that 
men  consciously  or  unconsciously  describe  them- 
selves in  the  characters  they  draw,  Emerson  must 
have  found  sympathy  and  congeniality  in  the  great 
men  he  made  the  subjects  of  his  early  lectures.  It 
is  no  tax  on  our  faith  to  believe  our  bard  had  a 
spirit  akin  to  that  of  the  great  Puritan  poet  of  Eng- 
land in  the  stress  he  placed  upon  the  purity  of  life 
and  nobility  of  character.  It  is  evident  he  was  like 
him  in  certain  external  circumstances  of  life,  as,  for 
instance,  his  early  experience  as  a  schoolmaster,  the 
abandonment  of  the  clerical  office  from  conscien- 


KALI'II    WALDO   EMERSON  197 

tious  scruples  and  the  sad  bereavement  of  his  early 
married  life.  This  fact,  though  only  a  coincidence, 
may  have  exerted  some  influence  on  Emerson  and 
stimulated  his  development  in  the  direction  whence 
.Milton  drew  his  inspiration. 

"It  is  the  prerogative  of  this  great  man,"  says 
Emerson  in  his  lecture  on  Milton,  "to  stand  at  this 
hour  foremost  of  all  men  in  literary  history,  and  so 
(shall  we  not  say?)  of  all  men  in  the  power  to 
inspire.  Virtue  goes  out  of  him  into  others." 
.  .  .  "He  is  identified  in  the  mind  with  all  select 
and  holy  images,  with  the  supreme  interests  of  the 
human  race." — "Better  than  any  other  he  has  dis- 
charged the  office  of  every  great  man,  namely,  to 
raise  the  idea  of  man  in  the  minds  of  his  contem- 
poraries and  of  posterity — to  draw  after  nature  life 
of  man,  exhibiting  such  a  composition  of  grace,  of 
strength,  and  of  virtue  as  poet  had  not  described 
nor  hero  lived.  Human  nature  in  these  ages  is  in- 
debted to  him  for  its  best  portrait.  Many  philoso- 
phers in  England,  France  and  Germany  have  for- 
mally dedicated  their  study  to  this  problem;  and 
we  think  it  impossible  to  recall  one  in  those  cen- 
turies who  communicates  the  same  vibration  of 
hope,  of  self-reverence,  of  piety,  of  delight  in 
beauty,  which  the  name  of  Milton  awakens." 

From  Concord  Emerson  made  frequent  excur- 
sions on  his  lecturing  tours.  He  departed  from  his 
beaten  path  of  lectures  when  he  delivered,  in  1835, 
in  Boston,  a  course  on  English  literature,  and  dur- 
ing the  following  year  on  the  history  of  philosophy. 
Later  he  delivered  a  course  on  human  culture. 
Some  of  his  popular  lectures  he  subsequently  recast 
and  published  under  the  title  of  "Essays  and  Ad- 
dresses." He  kept  his  time  occupied  during  these 
years  with  Lyceum  work,  and  his  services  as  a  pub- 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


lie  speaker  were  much  in  request  on  special  occa- 
sions. 

In  1836,  Emerson  published  anonymously  a  slen- 
der volume  of  essays,  entitled  "Nature."  This  was 
the  first  sheaf  of  his  intellectual  harvest,  the  first 
fruits  of  his  authorship.  Though  he  withheld  his 
name  from  the  title-page,  he  could  not  conceal  his 
identity,  despite  the  fact  that  the  style  of  the  book 
was  quite  unlike  that  of  his  public  lectures.  How- 
ever, this  little  literary  waif  did  not  meet  with  a 
cordial  reception  from  the  reading  public.  The  con- 
tents of  the  volume  were  vague  and  indefinite,  mys- 
tical and  obscure.  The  thought  soared  into  cloud- 
land  and  proved  incomprehensible  to  most  of  the 
critics.  The  uninitiated  could  not  understand  the 
book  and  so  did  not  read  it ;  and,  however  much  the 
esoterists  might  revel  in  it,  they  were  not  numerous 
enough  to  make  the  venture  a  financial  success. 
Consequently  the  sales  amounted  only  to  500  copies 
in  twelve  years. 

"Nature"  is  a  kind  of  nrose  poem,  like  most  of 
Emerson's  essays,  and  is  dividecTTnTo"  eight  chapters 
containing  the  author's  impressions  of  the  various 
aspects  of  his  subject.  After  a  delirious  outbreak 
in  which  he  loses  himself  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
theme,  he  discovers  himself  and  addresses  himself 
to  the  proposition  of  considering  nature  in  the 
aspect  of  ministry  to  the  senses.  This  chapter  he 
denominates  Commodity  or  natural  conveniences. 
The  second  chapter  shows  how  "a  nobler  want  of 
man  is  served  by  Nature,  namely,  the  love  of 
JJeai^ty."_  Here  we  find  some  of  Emerson's  philo- 
sopmcalideas  advanced  which  he  subsequently 
clothed  in  poetic  form  in  his  poem  "llhodora." 
"Beauty,"  says  lie,  "in  its  largest  and  profoundest 
sense,  is  one  expression  for  the  universe ;  God  is  the 


KAI.l'II     \VAL1><>    KMKKSON  199 

all  fair.  Truth  and  goodness  and  beauty  are'but  dif- 
ferent faces  of  t lie  same  nil.  I  Jut  beauty  in  nature  is 
not  ultimate.  It  is  the  herald  of  inward  and  eternal 
beauty,  and  is  not  alone  a  solid  and  satisfactory 
good.  It  must  therefore  stand  as  a  part  anfl  not  as 
yet  the  highest  expression  of  the  final  cause  of  na- 
ture." 

The  author  next  considers  Language,  showing 
how  words  are  called  into  being  first  from  nature 
and  later  become  transformed  and  exhausted.  In 
the  fourth  chapter  he  discusses  Discipline  as  illus- 
trating the  influences  of  nature  in  training  the  in- 
tellect, the  moral  sense  and  the  will.  Then  follow 
two  chapters  on  Idealism  and  Spirit,  respectively, 
which  prove  a  stumbling  block  and  rock  of  offense 
to  the  unimaginative  reader.  Such  a  reader  sees 
here  only  the  misty  vagaries  of  a  morbid  imagina- 
tion. The  book  closes  with  a  discussion  of  Pros- 
pects, which  soars  far  above  the  level  of  prose  into 
the  region  of  poetry,  detailing  "some  traditions  of 
man  and  nature  which  a  certain  poet  sang."  This 
is  the  quintessence  of  transcendentalism  of  which 
Emerson  was  the  chief  exponent. 

If  Emerson's  philosophy  as  expounded  in  "Na- 
ture" signified  foolishness  to  the  man  of  average 
intelligence,  not  so  his  superb  oration  on  "The 
American  Scholar"  delivered  before  that  learned 
body  at  Harvard,  on  August  31,  1837.  This  schol- 
arly and  inspiring  address,  we  are  told,  was  listened 
to  with  rapt  attention  by  an  audience  that  was  well- 
nigh  spellbound  by  the  speaker's  eloquence.  Lowell, 
referring  to  it,  says  that  its  delivery  "was  an  event 
without  any  parallel  in  literary  annals,  a  scene  to 
be  always  treasured  in  the  memory  for  its  pic- 
turesqueness  and  its  inspiration.  What  crowded 
and  breathless  aisles,  what  windows  clustering  with 


200  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

eager  heads,  what  enthusiasm  of  approval,  what 
grim  silence  of  foregone  dissent/'  Holmes  speaks 
of  it,  in  his  Life  of  Emerson,  as  our  intellectual 
Declaration  of  Independence;  and  his  language  is 
not  mere  rhetorical  exaggeration.  The  essay  is  a 
masterly  plea  for  a  broad  and  liberal  culture  which 
shall  embrace  the  full  development  of  all  the  facul- 
ties. The  general  verdict  of  the  auditors  was  that 
that  address  could  never  be  forgotten,  which  burst 
upon  their  ears  like  a  clarion  note  calling  to  a 
broader,  fuller  and  nobler  life. 

The  following  year  Emerson  delivered  an  address 
before  the  Divinity  College  in  Cambridge  which 
proved  a  rude  shock  to  the  orthodox  thinkers  of  the 
world  and  threw  them  into  a  paroxysm  of  excite- 
ment. This  address  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the 
memorable  address  of  the  year  before.  Yet  the 
unorthodox  address  was  the  logical  outcome  of  the 
spirit  of  intellectual  independence  which  breathes 
through  every  sentence  of  "The  American  Scholar." 
The  publication  of  this  essay  proclaiming  Emer- 
son's emancipation  from  dogma  was  the  signal  for  a 
veritable  swarm  of  hostile  critics  of  the  orthodox 
school  to  gather  about  his  head  and  fill  the  air  with 
their  angry  buzz. 

In  1841  Emerson  gave  to  the  world  the  first  vol- 
ume of  his  collected  "Essays."  The  table  of  con- 
tents is  stimulating  and  suggestive:  History,  Self- 
Reliance,  Compensation,  Spiritual  Laws,  Love, 
Friendship,  Prudence,  Heroism,  The  Over  Soul, 
Circles,  Intellect,  Art  and  the  Young  American  (in- 
cluded in  the  later  editions).  These  essays  estab- 
lished Emerson's  reputation  as  the  prince  of  Ameri- 
can essayists.  This  prose  vein  he  developed  and 
made  distinctively  his  own.  It  is  noteworthy  that 
he  confined  his  expression  in  prose  exclusively  to 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  201 

this  species  of  composition.  He  is  recognized  there- 
fore in  American  letters  as  an  essayist  par  excel- 
lence. The  reason  why  he  chose  this  special  form 
for  the  expression  of  his  thought  is  not  far  to  seek. 
A  moment's  reflection  AVI  11  explain  why  a  lecturer 
should  adopt  the  essay  style. 

This  first  series  of  essays  is  characteristic  of  their 
author's  manner  and  method.  If,  according  to  Buf- 
fon's  dictum,  the  style  is  the  man,  these  essays  re- 
flect Emerson  as  in  a  mirror.  We  observe  his 
subtle  wit,  his  bold,  imaginative  spirit,  his  magnetic 
charm  and  his  power  to  inspire.  The  thought  is 
driven  home  with  peculiar  force  by  the  author's 
wealth  of  happy  illustration  and  is  clothed,  withal, 
in  crisp,  trenchant,  vigorous  English.  The  essays 
abound  in  short  pithy  sayings  setting  forth  the 
sage's  philosophy  of  life.  Yet  here  and  there  we 
stumble  upon  sentences  that  are  wellnigh  unintel- 
ligible, mere  words  without  sense.  Those  not 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  transcendentalism 
can  deduce  no  meaning  from  such  passages  and  gen- 
erally regard  them  as  utter  nonsense.  An  example 
in  point  is  the  conclusion  of  the  essay  on  history 
where  in  a  paragraph  Emerson  exclaims :  "I  am 
ashamed  to  see  what  a  shallow'  village  tale  our  so- 
called  history  is.  How  many  times  we  must  say 
Rome  and  Paris  and  Constantinople!  What  does 
Rome  know  of  rat  and  lizard?  What  are  Olym- 
piads and  Consulates  to  these  neighboring  systems 
of  being?  Nay,  what  food  or  experience  of  succor 
have  they  for  the  Esquimaux  seal-hunter,  for  the 
Kanaka  in  his  canoe,  for  the  fisherman,  the  steve- 
dore, the  porter?"  Now,  this  passage  may  be  per- 
fectly intelligible  to  the  student  versed  in  transcend- 
entalism. But  to  the  average  reader  it  is  a  veritable 
enigma. 


202  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Moreover  there  is  a  degree  of  sameness  about  the 
several  essays  that  is  quite  noticeable.  The  sub- 
jects, to  be  sure,  differ.  But  on  close  analysis  the 
thought  will  be  seen  to  be  very  much  the  same  in  all. 
Each  essay  serves  to  present  another  point  of  view, 
another  angle  from  which  to  look  at  the  truth  which 
is  repeated  again  and  again.  An  eminent  divine 
used  to  say,  after  having  preached  innumerable 
sermons,  that,  after  all,  he  had  only  one  sermon, 
only  one  truth.  Certainly  this  seems  true  of  Emer- 
son's essays.  The  message  he  brings  is  much  the 
same  in  all.  He  had  a  revelation  of  the  import  of 
creation  and  this  constituted  his  message  to  the 
world.  This  he  presented  in  a  variety  of  ways  and 
under  different  figures,  but  the  message  was  still 
the  same. 

Critics  have  pointed  out  reminiscences  of  various 
philosophers  in  these  "Essays."  In  one  place  they 
recognize  the  influence  of  Plato,  who  was  Emer- 
son's favorite  among  the  ancient  philosophers.  In 
another  place  they  attribute  the  original  thought  to 
Swedenborg,  or  to  Schelling,  or  to  the  God-intoxi- 

Hcated  Spinoza.  In  the  essay,  "Over  Soul,"  Emer- 
son verges  on  pantheism  in  his  rhapsodies.  But 
whether  this  idea  is  borrowed  or  is  evolved  from  his 
own  inner  consciousness,  it  would  be  difficult  to  de- 
termine. The  author  himself  informs  us  that  he 
read  sedulously  not  only  the  above-mentioned 
philosophers,  but  many  others.  What  is  more 
natural  than  that  his  own  writings  should  take  tone 
and  color  from  the  works  he  fed  on  just  as  the 
chameleon  takes  its  color  from  the  object  it  feeds 
upon?  If  questioned  himself  about  this  matter, 
Emerson  would  probably  have  replied,  "Every  book 
is  a  quotation;  every  man  is  a  quotation  from  all 
his  ancestors. — When  we  are  praising  Plato,  it 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON  203 

seems  we  arc  praising  quotations  from  Solon  and 
Soph ron  and  I'hilolaus." 

In  1844,  appeared  the  second  series  of  "Essays." 
These  are  very  much  of  the  same  general  character 
as  the  first  series  and  embrace  such  titles  as  the 
Poet,  Character,  Manners,  Experience,  Gifts,  Na- 
ture, Politics,  and  Nominalist  and  Realist.  Two 
years  later  Emerson  published  his  first  volume  of 
poems.  These,  however,  were  not  all  new.  Many  of 
them  had  already  seen  the  light  in  "The  Dial,"  and 
their  appearance  in  book  form  did  not  excite  much 
enthusiasm.  Besides,  the  sentiment  was  strikingly 
akin  to  that  expressed  in  the  "Essays." 

In  1847,  Emerson  made  his  second  visit  to  Eu- 
rope, gathering  fresh  inspiration  and  renewing  his 
acquaintance  with  the  literary  lights  met  on  his 
first  trip  abroad.  While  in  England  his  admirers 
and  friends  prevailed  on  him  to  deliver  a  series  of 
lectures,  which  were  received  with  considerable 
demonstration  of  approval.  These  lectures  were 
subsequently  published  under  the  title  of  "Repre- 
sentative Men."  The  men  selected  as  the  subjects 
of  the  essays,  it  is  interesting  to  note,  were  men  of 
thought  and  action,  such  as  Plato,  Swedenborg, 
Montaigne,  Shakespeare,  Napoleon  and  Goethe.  In 
the  choice  of  these  men  for  portrayal  Emerson 
clearly  indicated  to  the  world  his  own  affinities  and 
repulsions  and  revealed  his  own  character  perhaps 
all  unconsciously  and  unintentionally.  Of  the  six 
representative  men  Plato  seems  to  approximate 
most  closely  his  ideal  man.  Yet  he  does  not  hold 
up  even  Plato  for  our  unqualified  admiration. 

Another  book,  "English  Traits,"  though  not  pub- 
lished till  1856,  was  also  indebted  for  its  inspiration 
to  this  European  tour.  This  volume  and  "Repre- 
sentative Men"  mark  something  of  a  departure 


204  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

from  our  author's  customary  method  as  a  literary 
artist,  "English  Traits"  is  an  attempt  at  portrayal 
of  character.  But  no  individual  Englishman  is  se- 
lected and  held  up  as  representative  of  his  nation. 
Emerson's  plan  was  rather  to  delineate  the  national 
characteristics  of  the  English  people,  and  in  this 
respect  he  succeeded  admirably.  For  the  book  is 
decidedly  original,  like  all  of  its  author's  produc- 
tions, and  contains  many  clever,  piquant  observa- 
tions upon  the  characteristic  ways  and  manners  of 
our  British  cousins  across  the  sea.  The  strength  of 
the  book,  however,  lies  in  its  broad  generalizations 
and  in  its  epigrammatic  characterizations,  as  an 
eminent  critic  has  felicitously  expressed  it.  It  is 
evident  to  the  reader  that  Emerson  was  favorably 
impressed  by  the  sturdy,  stolid  character  of  the 
typical  Englishman,  his  indomitable  pluck  and 
vigor,  his  deep-rooted  conservatism,  his  love  of 
routine,  and,  withal,  his  refreshing  self-compla- 
cency and  contentment. 

When  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  founded,  Emer- 
son was  solicited  to  become  a  contributor.  From 
this  time  forth  much  of  his  best  work,  verse  as  well 
as  prose,  found  its  way  into  the  columns  of  this 
famous  magazine.  Here  first  appeared  his  poems 
"The  Romany  Girl,"  "Days,"  "Brahma,"  "Waldein- 
samkeit,"  "The  Titmouse,"  "Saadi,"  and  "Termi- 
nus," not  to  mention  any  of  his  prose  contributions. 

In  1860  Emerson  published  a  new  collection  of 
essays,  entitled  the  "Conduct  of  Life."  This  vol- 
ume contained  his  ripe  reflections  upon  such  themes 
as  power,  fate,  culture,  worship,  wealth,  behavior, 
beauty  and  illusions.  These  essays  are  in  a  similar 
philosophical  vein  to  those  previously  published 
from  his  pen,  and  so  do  not  call  for  a  detailed  con- 
sideration here.  Six  years  after  this  Emerson  col- 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  205 

lected  a  slender  volume  of  his  fugitive  poems,  giv- 
ing them  more  permanent  form  under  the  title, 
"May-Day  and  Other  Pieces."  The  booklet  con- 
tained some  of  its  author's  finest  poems,  but  little 
that  was  really  new.  Its  reception  by  the  public 
was  not  attended  with  any  special  demonstration 
or  gush.  Nor  did  Emerson  care  for  this.  He  did 
not  write  for  the  approval  of  the  public  or  of  the 
critics.  He  acted  altogether  independently  of  the 
opinion  of  his  contemporaries.  Not  that  he  was 
altogether  insensible  to  criticism,  for  he  was  not. 
But  conscience  was  his  guiding  principle. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  Emerson's  literary 
productions  were  not  cordially  received.  Far  from 
this,  they  were  accorded  a  hearty  welcome,  espe- 
cially by  the  hosts  of  his  ardent  admirers  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  This  was  but  the  natural 
consequence  from  the  admiration  and  reverence  in 
which  he  was  held  by  all  who  knew  him.  His  repu- 
tation as  a  philosopher  and  as  an  author  was  not 
confined  to  the  shores  of  his  native  country.  He 
counted  his  disciples  in  Europe  by  the  score.  He 
shed  lustre  upon  the  republic  of  American  letters, 
and  though  he  was  not  a  voluminous  author,  the 
quality  of  his  writings  has  extended  his  fame 
throughout  the  world. 

After  the  publication  of  another  collection  of  es- 
says which  he  called  "Society  and  Solitude",  Emer- 
son left  America  for  a  third  visit  to  Europe.  Upon 
his  return  he  published  a  poetic  anthology  and  re- 
sumed his  work  as  a  lecturer.  But  approaching  old 
age  admonished  his  to  relax  his  arduous  literary 
labors.  Two  volumes  in  his  collected  work,  "Lec- 
tures and  Biographical  Sketches"  and  "Miscella- 
nies," represent  the  last  gleanings  of  his  intellec- 
tual harvest.  Some  of  the  essays,  however,  which 


206  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

make  up  these  last  two  volumes  were  the  product 
of  his  earlier  years  when  his  mental  vigor  showed 
no  indication  of  abatement.  The  contents  of  these 
volumes  embrace  a  variety  of  topics,  but  do  not  en- 
hance their  author's  reputation  especially. 

As  we  have  seen,  Emerson  was  not  a  prolific 
writer.  About  a  dozen  volumes  of  prose  and  verse 
represent  the  entire  output  of  his  literary  labors. 
It  need  hardly  be  remarked  that  the  bulk  of  his 
work  is  prose.  Yet  his  collected  poems  make  a 
good  stout  volume.  He  did  not  produce  any 
lengthy  prose  work.  The  essay  is  his  favorite  form. 

After  this  general  survey  it  is  fitting  to  consider 
the  question  of  Emerson's  place  in  American  litera- 
ture. 

Emerson's  poetry  has  been  variously  estimated 
by  the  critics,  and  has  proved  an  unfailing  source 
of  contention.  It  seems  to  have  divided  the  critics 
into  two  distinct  classes.  One  class  holds  that 
Emerson  was  pre-eminently  a  poet  by  nature  and 
instinct,  and  that  even  when  he  lapsed  into  prose, 
his  thought  was  essentially  poetic.  The  other 
class,  with  equally  firm  conviction,  maintains  that 
Emerson  was  a  mere  versifier,  only  a  poetaster,  not 
a  poet.  In  proof  of  this  thesis  they  cite,  with  sonic 
pretence  of  right,  the  innumerable  palpable  defects 
of  versification  that  blur  and  mar  many  of  Emer- 
son's pages. 

It  is  true  that  the  mechanical  blemishes  of  his 
verse  do  tend  to  discount  Emerson's  poetic  gift. 
But  the  question  in  dispute  is  a  subjective  one 
which,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  cannot  be  satis- 
factorily settled.  Each  critic  may  record  his  opin- 
ion and  that  is  the  end  of  the  matter  as  far  as  he  is 
personally  concerned;  but  the  question  is  far  from 
solution.  Suffice  it  to  say  in  respect  of  the  present 


RALPH    NYAl.IK)    KMKRSON  207 

question,  however,  that  the  majority  of  critics  are 
overwhelmingly  in  favor  of  voting  Emerson  a  gen- 
uine poet. 

First  as  to  Emerson's  prose.  Emerson  confined 
himself,  as  is  well  known,  almost  exclusively  to  the 
essay.  He  did  not  enter  the  vast  domain  of  fiction 
which  at  present  engaged  the  attention  of  most  au- 
thors. He  did  not  even  venture  upon  the  portrayal 
of  character,  except  in  a  limited  extent  in  his  "Eng- 
lish Traits."  Emerson  did  not  possess  the  faculty 
of  definition  (if  that  is  the  proper  word)  which  is  a 
pre-requisite  to  the  novelist  for  describing  with 
sharpness  of  outline  the  various  characters  of  his 
story,  so  that  they  stand  out  from  his  page  as  clear- 
cut  and  distinct  from  each  other  as  in  real  life. 
Nor  did  Emerson  exhibit  that  type  of  creative  mind 
which  invents  characters,  and  which  sketches  scenes 
bristling  with  action.  In  short,  Emerson  could  not 
construct  a  plot  and  fill  it  in  with  men  and  women 
of  his  own  creation. 

Emerson's  genius  was  of  a  distinctly  philosoph- 
ical type.  This  determined  the  product  of  his  liter- 
ary efforts.  Not  in  works  of  fiction,  but  in  his- 
tory, in  biography  and  in  philosophy  did  he  seek 
instruction  and  inspiration.  Mere  fiction  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  His  favorite  authors  were  Plato, 
Plutarch,  Montaigne,  Goethe,  Bacon,  Sweden- 
borg,  Socrates,  Aristotle,  Milton  and  Shakes- 
peare. These  were  the  authors  who  stimulated  his 
imagination  and  kindled  his  genius.  These  he 
quotes  again  and  again  as  emphasizing  the  proper 
conception  of  life  and  as  illustrating  the  principle 
of  pure  living  and  high  thinking.  Emerson  had  an 
exalted  conception  of  life  and  human  destiny.  He 
realized  that  he  had  a  message  for  the  world,  and 
he  was  as  much  in  earnest  in  the  delivery  of  his 


208 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


message  as  was  his  friend  Carlyle.  Like  the  sage 
of  Chelsea,  Emerson  was  a  moralist  and  took  his 
mission  very  seriously,  and  made  a  lasting  impres- 
sion upon  the  world.  Though  in  revolt  against  the 
accepted  traditions  of  the  Church,  he  dared  to  an- 
nounce to  the  world  his  declaration  of  intellectual 
independence  with  absolute  unconcern  as  to  author- 
ity, names  or  institutions.  Nor  was  he  altogether 
like  one  crying  in  the  wilderness.  He  had  a  large 
following.  The  world  admires  a  man  who  has  the 
moral  courage  to  express  his  convictions,  regardless 
of  the  penalty. 

As  a  philosopher,  Emerson's  place  is  difficult  to 
determine.  He  was  not  a  psychologist.  Yet  he 
wrote  and  delivered  lectures  on  the  natural  history 
of  the  intellect.  He  was  a  seer,  a  man  of  intuition. 
He  lived  and  wrote  as  if  by  divine  instinct.  He 
arrived  at  truth,  not  by  any  mental  process  of  rea- 
soning, but  by  intuition.  Unlike  most  men,  he  did 
not  reason  out  anything.  The  ratiocinative  faculty 
was  not  developed  in  him.  If  il  had  been,  he  would 
have  been  more  logical  and  consistent,  and  less  of 
an  enigma  to  his  disciples.  This  is  the  reason  why 
his  writings  appear  wanting  in  logical  connection. 
You  may  read  his  essays  backward  as  well  as  for- 
ward with  much  the  same  effect.  The  arrangement 
is  not  always  logical  and  the  sequence  of  thought 
is  frequently  interrupted.  Nor  do  the  titles  invari- 
ably furnish  a  true  index  to  the  contents.  Hence 
not  a  few  readers  find  Emerson  rambling  and  inco- 
herent, and  sometimes,  obscure  and  unintelligible. 
The  obscurity  is  perhaps  due  to  his  idealism,  his 
mysticism ;  for  he  is  an  idealist,  a  spiritualist,  not  a 
materialist.  His  mysticism,  too,  sometimes  leads 
him  perilously  near  the  ridiculous  and  the  absurd. 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON  209 

But  these  lapses,  it  ought  to  be  added,  are  only 
occasional. 

Emerson's  philosophy  offers  as  its  chief  and  dis- 
tinctive achievement  his  analysis  and  interpreta- 
tion of  nature.  This  is  the  purport  of  his  maiden 
volume  and  it  is  the  theme  of  all  his  subsequent 
volumes.  Nature  in  its  broadest  sense  he  con- 
ceives as  comprehending  everything  in  the  universe 
except  man's  soul,  and  it  is  the  symbol  even  of  this. 
In  nature  God  has  expressed  in  concrete  form  his 
infinite  ideas,  has  incarnated  himself,  so  to  say,  for 
man's  development.  Man  represents  the  highest 
principle  in  nature,  and  the  whole  effect  of  nature 
upon  him  is  disciplinary.  Therefore,  nature  itself 
cannot  be  said  to  have  any  natural  existence  apart 
from  man,  and  things  do  not  exist  in  space,  but  are 
only  reflected  as  from  man's  soul.  The  soul  con- 
ceives the  world  as  one  vast  canvas,  as  it  were, 
painted  by  the  master  artist  upon  eternity  and  em- 
bodying his  eternal  ideas.  When  nature  rises  into 
mind — and  its  tendency  is  ever  in  that  direction — 
individuality  begins.  Nature  gradually  evolves  it- 
self into  spiritual  man  as  the  final  cause  of  exist- 
ence, and  is  itself  but  the  projection  of  a  Being  in 
the  form  of  man,  that  is,  God.  Such,  in  a  nutshell, 
is  Emerson's  philosophy. 

But  Emerson  was  also  a  poet.  In  his  verse  as  in 
his  prose,  however,  he  was  still  a  philosopher.  Like 
Lucretius,  Emerson  was  a  philosopher  and  poet 
both  at  one  and  the  same  time.  But  in  the  poet  he 
is  the  philosopher  transformed.  In  his  philosoph- 
ical poems  expressing  the  great  elementary  ideas  he 
is  at  his  best,  and  is,  in  a  sense,  unapproachable. 
Here  he  deals  in  general  symbols  and  abstract 
ideas,  and  impresses  upon  the  reader  his  majestic 
conception  of  the  infinite.  These  poems,  it  is  true, 


210  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

contain  more  or  less  of  mysticism ;  but,  for  all  that, 
they  are  masterly  productions  of  their  kind.  In  the 
judgment  of  some  of  the  most  eminent  critics  these 
poems  are  the  finest  Emerson  wrote  and  reach  the 
very  high-water  mark  of  poetic  composition.  Of 
this  class  of  poems  suffice  it  to  mention  "The 
Sphinx,"  "Brahma,"  "Uriel,"  and  "Guy."  Yet 
other  critics  fail  to  discover  any  striking  merit  in 
these  poems  and  derive  no  pleasure  from  their  read- 
ing. They  find  them  unsatisfying  as  poetry  be- 
cause of  their  hidden  meaning,  their  mysticism. 
These  poems  are  assuredly  not  radiant  with  light, 
whatever  other  excellences  they  may  have  to  com- 
mend them.  For  this  reason,  mainly,  they  do  not 
appeal  to  the  popular  taste.  They  are  too  philo- 
sophical to  please  the  average  reader,  who  likes 
simplicity.  Probably  most  people  prefer  Emer- 
son's love  poems,  such  as  "To  Ehea,"  "Give  All  to 
Love,"  and  "Initial,  Daemonic  and  Celestial  Love." 
Though  these  may  not  be  models  of  simplicity  and 
clearness,  their  meaning  is  not  deep  or  far  to  seek. 
But  whether  one  prefers  the  love  poems  or  the 
philosophical  poems,  is,  after  all,  a  matter  of  taste. 
However,  Emerson's  poetic  output  is  not  ex- 
hausted by  these  two  kinds  of  poems.  He  produced 
another  kind  of  poetry  whose  "beauty  is  its  own  ex- 
cuse for  being."  Such  are  "The  Humble-Bee," 
"Rhodora,"  "Painting  and  Sculpture,"  "Forbear- 
ance," "Good-Bye,"  and  the  famous  Concord 
"Hymn."  The  beauty  of  these  poems  appeals  to  all 
men,  the  uninitiated  as  well  as  the  initiated,  and 
every  one  can  appreciate  them.  If  all  his  other 
poems  were  lost,  these  would  be  sufficient  of  them- 
selves to  preserve  the  bard's  reputation  as  an  orig- 
inal poet  with  a  rare  gift  of  expression. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON  211 

Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that,  excellent  as  much 
of  Emerson's  poetry  is,  it  has  some  serious  defects. 
Emerson  did  not  possess  a  faultless  ear,  as  is  very 
evident  from  a  cursory  examination  of  his  verse. 
He  paid  too  little  attention  to  the  mechanical  struc- 
ture of  his  lines,  to  metre.  Some  of  his  verses  show 
a  cloven  foot  and  go  limping  along  in  a  fashion  that 
offends  delicate  tastes.  This  result  is  the  logical 
outcome  of  the  "fatal  facility"  of  his  favorite  metre. 
Like  Byron,  Emerson  depended  upon  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  moment  to  mold  his  thought  in  final 
shape,  apparently  disdaining  to  supplement  the 
product  of  his  genius  with  art.  The  labor  of  the 
file  would  have  easily  removed  all  the  metrical  blem- 
ishes, and  that  without  sacrificing  the  spontaneity 
of  the  verse.  But  Emerson  was  unwilling  to  revise 
or  to  resort  to  art,  to  polish  and  perfect  his  lines. 
He  concerned  himself  with  the  thought,  not  with 
the  form,  acting  on  the  maxim  of  Cato,  Rem  tene, 
verba  sequentur. 

Aside  from  the  mechanical  imperfections,  Emer- 
son's verse  is  open  to  criticism  on  the  same  score  as 
his  prose.  His  poetry  no  less  than  his  prose  is 
marred  by  occasional  obscurity  and  lack  of  coher- 
ence. The  poet  is  sometimes  carried  off  his  feet  in 
his  rhapsodies  and  soars  into  cloudland.  Hence, 
as  has  been  noted,  some  of  Emerson's  poems  are  en- 
veloped in  mysticism  and  for  this  reason  are  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  They  smack  too  strongly  of 
the  transcendental  school,  and  too  often  lapse  into 
doggerel.  Poe  who  was  endowed  with  a  keen  artis- 
tic touch  and  was  himself  no  mean  judge  of  verse 
found  much  of  the  Concord  bard's  verse  mere  jin- 
gling rhymes,  devoid  of  melody,  beauty  and  senti- 
ment. But  Poe  could  not  away  with  any  of  the 
transcendental  poets. 


212  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Yet  after  criticism  has  said  her  last  word,  and 
analysis  can  go  no  farther,  there  still  remains  a 
beauty,  a  charm,  about  Emerson  which  is  perceived 
more  clearly  than  it  can  be  expressed.  His  wealth 
of  imagery  and  illustration  which  seems  almost 
Oriental,  his  breadth  and  vigor  of  thought,  his  deli- 
cacy of  treatment,  his  terseness  of  speech  and  his 
moral  earnestness  withal  combine  to  make  him  a 
favorite  author  even  despite  his  mysticism  and 
transcendentalism.  He  dwells  in  a  bracing  atmo- 
sphere on  the  very  mountain  top  of  thought  and,  as 
a  seer,  catches  visions  of  the  infinite  which  he  re- 
veals to  us  for  our  upbuilding  and  inspiration.  We 
recognize  in  him  one  of  the  most  original  and  vital- 
izing forces  in  our  literature. 


EMERSON 
CONCORD  HYMN 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires-,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


EACH  AND  ALL 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  you  red-cloaked  clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 


214  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even ; 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky  ;— 

He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage; — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth :" — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  grounipine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

J'ine-coues  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 


KALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  215 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  liiilil  :nid  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


THE  RHODORA 

ON  BEING  ASKED,,   WHENCE   IS  THE  FLOWER? 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 

Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose! 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew: 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 

THE  PROBLEM 

I  like  a  church :  I  like  a  cowl, 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles : 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 


216  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's-  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe: 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew ; — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 

Of  leaves,  and-  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 

Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 

Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 

To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 

O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 

For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 

These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 

And  Nature  gladly  »-nv<>  UHMU  place, 

Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 

With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  217 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vasi  soul  that  o'er  him  planned ; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken ; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,— 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augusiine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines, 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


DAYS 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 


218  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

GOOD-BYE 

Good-bye,  proud  world !  Fm  going  home : 
Thou  are  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world !  I'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace ; 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye; 
To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ; 
To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ; 
To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet; 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come ; 
Good-bye,  proud  world!  I'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone, — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugli  at  the  lore  and  the  prido  of  man. 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  (lie  l<':irn<><l  H;m  ; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 


KALI'II    WALDO    EMERSON  219 


CHARACTER 

The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope : 
Stars  rose;  his  faith  was  earlier  up: 
Fixed  on  the  enormous  galaxy, 
Deeper  and  older  seemed  his  eye ; 
And  matched  his  sufferance  sublime 
The  taciturnity  of  time. 
He  spoke,  and  words  more  soft  than  rain 
Brought  the  Age  of  Gold  again : 
His  action  won  such  reverence  sweet 
As  hid  all  measure  of  the  feat. 


TERMINUS 

It  is  time  to  be  old, 

To  take  in  sail : — 

The  god  of  bounds, 

Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds, 

And  said :  "No  more ! 

No  farther  shoot 

Thy  broad  ambitious  branches,  and  thy  root. 

Fancy  departs :  no  more  invent ; 

Contract  thy  firmament 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 

There's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 

Make  thy  option  which  of  two; 

Economize  the  failing  river, 

Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver, 

Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 

Timely  wise  accept  the  terms, 

Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot; 

A  little  while 

Still  plan  and  smile, 

And,  fault  of  novel  germs, 

Mature  the  unfallen  fruit. 


220  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 

Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 

Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath, 

Failed  to  bequeath 

The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 

The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 

But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 

Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins, — 

Amid  the  Muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 

Amid  the  gladiators,  halt  and  numb." 

As  the  bird  trims  her  to  the  gale, 
I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time, 
I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail, 
Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime: 
"Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 
Right  onward  drive  unharmed; 
The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 
And  every  wave  is  charmed." 


CHAPTER  IX 
WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

Bryant  has  been  called  the  Patriarch  of  Ameri- 
can poetry.  The  title  is  not  inappropriate,  nor  the 
distinction  unmerited.  For,  in  point  of  time,  Bry- 
ant ranks  first  of  our  major  poets,  and  the  quality 
of  his  verse  comes  up  to  the  standard  set  by  the  best 
of  that  number.  "Thanatopsis,"  which  first  pro- 
claimed the  rising  of  his  star,  was  written  when  its 
author  was  not  yet  out  of  his  teens,  and  at  once 
took  rank  as  the  finest  poem  which  American  litera- 
ture, up  to  that  time,  had  produced.  It  bore  strik- 
ing testimony  to  Bryant's  precocious  genius  and  by 
its  appeal  to  nature  and  the  higher  life  it  demon- 
strated his  admiration  for,  and  adherence  to,  the 
best  traditions  of  English  poetry,  and  proved  its 
author  a  pupil  of  Wordsworth,  the  great  English 
singer  of  nature.  While  not  up  to  the  level  of 
Wordsworth's  best  verse,  "Thanatopsis"  is  like  it  in 
kind  and  quality — so  much  so  that  no  critic  would 
have  paid  the  penalty  of  impaired  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment  who  might  have  attributed  the 
anonymous  lyric  to  the  famous  English  laureate. 
By  this  one  brief  song  Bryant  achieved  for  himself 
the  enviable  reputation  of  a  genuine  poet,  and  im- 
mediately established  himself  as  the  undisputed 
laureate  of  America. 

Bryant  spent  most  of  his  life  in  New  York  City, 
and  because  of  this  circumstance  he  is  usually 
placed  by  the  critics  in  the  Knickerbocker  group  of 
writers.  But  he  was  not  essentially  of  this  group. 


222  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

He  belonged  really  to  the  New  England  school,  both 
in  respect  of  the  character  and  of  the  quality  of  his 
poetic  achievement.  He  was  sprung  from  the 
sturdy  old  Puritan  stock,  and  his  ancestors  came 
over  in  the  May flower.  He  therefore  enjoyed  much 
the  same  literary  traditions  and  heritage  as  his  con- 
temporary Longfellow,  who  was  descended  from  the 
same  stock. 

Bryant  was  born  November  3, 1794,  in  the  village 
of  Cummington,  amid  the  Hampshire  hills  of  Mas- 
sachusetts. Here  he  passed  his  boyhood  in  this 
beautiful  country  where  nature  displays  her  infinite 
variety  of  scenery  in  open  field,  green  meadow  with 
its  babbling  brook  and  the  wood-clad  hills.  Young 
Bryant  found  keen  delight  in  his  picturesque  sur- 
roundings. With  his  elder  brother  Austin  he  at- 
tended the  district  school  hard  by  the  babbling 
brook  and  received  instruction  of  the  most  element- 
ary character.  "I  was  an  excellent,  almost  an  in- 
fallible speller,"  he  wrote  later,  speaking  of  his 
early  school  days,  "and  ready  in  geography;  but  in 
the  Catechism,  not  understanding  the  abstract 
terms,  I  made  but  little  progress." 

Bryant's  father,  who  was  a  good  country  physi- 
cian and  who  served  his  State  many  years  in  the 
Legislature,  encouraged  his  son's  aptitude  for  let- 
ters and  stimulated  his  desire  for  knowledge  by 
allowing  him  to  browse  at  will  in  his  well-selected 
library.  When  William  Cullen  was  in  his  tenth 
year,  his  grandfather  gave  him  a  nine-penny  coin 
for  turning  the  first  chapter  of  Job  into  a  rhymed 
version.  About  the  same  time  the  precocious  lad 
wrote  out  a  rhymed  description  of  the  district 
school  he  attended,  and  the  lines  were  honored  with 
a  place  in  the  columns  of  the  county  paper.  At  this 
early  age  his  ambition  was  kindled  with  an  all-ab- 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT  223 

desire  to  be  a  poet.  He  eagerly  read  all  the 
poetry  that  came  within  his  reach  and  still  longed 
for  more.  In  this  manner  the  re  was  early  developed 
in  him  a  peculiar  susceptibility  to  the  poetical 
aspects  of  nature. 

"I  was  always,"  he  tells  us,  "from  my  earliest 
years,  a  delighted  observer  of  external  nature — the 
splendors  of  a  winter's  daybreak  over  the  wide 
wastes  of  snow  seen  from  our  windows,  the  glories 
of  the  autumnal  woods,  the  gloomy  approaches  of 
the  thunderstorm  and  its  departure  amid  sunshine 
and  rainbows,  the  return  of  the  spring  with  its 
flowers,  and  the  first  snowfall  of  winter.  The  poets 
fostered  this  taste  in  me,  and  though  at  that  time  I 
rarely  heard  such  things  spoken  of,  it  was  none  the 
less  cherished  in  my  secret  mind." 

It  is  an  interesting,  though  unimportant,  circum- 
stance that  Bryant's  first  original  poem  was  called 
forth  by  a  political  measure — the  embargo  laid 
upon  all  the  ports  of  the  Republic  at  the  instance  of 
President  Jefferson.  This  measure,  which  wrought 
much  damage  to  private  interests  in  New  England, 
rendered  Jefferson's  administration  extremely  un- 
popular in  that  part  of  the  Union.  The  Bryants 
were  zealous  Federalists.  It  is  small  wonder,  there- 
fore, that  William  Cullen,  with  Ijis  characteristic 
knack  for  rhyming,  should  have  given  expression  to 
his  partisan  feeling  in  a  satiric  poem,  entitled  "The 
Embargo."  This  juvenile  production  was  pub- 
lished in  Boston,  in  1808,  and  was  intended  as  a 
severe  indictment  against  the  Democratic  party 
and  its  great  founder.  In  general,  it  may  be  said 
to  have  reflected  the  feelings  and  temper  of  the  New 
England  Federalists.  It  is  a  noteworthy  example 
of  the  irony  of  fate  that  this  youthful,  ardent  Fed- 
eralist became,  in  after  years,  the  stanchest  advo- 


224  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

cate  and  most  influential  champion  of  those  Demo- 
cratic principles  of  which  Jefferson  was  the  first 
accredited  exponent. 

"The  Embargo"  of  course  has  no  value  as  poetry. 
The  theme — not  to  mention  its  author's  immature 
age — did  not  lend  itself  to  poetic  treatment.  The 
piece,  though  possessing  no  merit,  is  prized,  how- 
ever, as  a  curiosity,  which  shows  Bryant's  facility 
for  versification.  Neither  this  nor  any  other  of  his 
numerous  juvenile  effusions  was  deemed  worthy  of 
being  included  in  any  collected  edition  of  his  poems, 
though  they  were  regarded  by  his  contemporaries  as 
"the  flowering  laurel  on  his  brow."  These  early 
productions  demonstrate  very  clearly  their  author's 
instinctive  accuracy  in  measure  and  rhyme — points 
which  he  invariably  looked  after  with  scrupulous 
care. 

Bryant  was  prepared  for  college  by  a  neighboring 
clergyman,  Kev.  Moses  Hallock,  whose  fitting  school 
(facetiously  called  by  his  pupils  the  "Bread  and 
Milk  College,"  from  the  frequency  of  these  simple 
articles  of  diet  in  the  menu)  enjoyed  a  very  favor- 
able reputation  in  preparing  youths  for  college. 
Young  Bryant  entered  the  sophomore  class  in  Wil- 
liams College,  in  1810,  being  in  his  sixteenth  year. 
Before  the  close  of  the  session  he  applied  for  honor- 
able dismissal,  intending  to  matriculate  at  Yale. 
"When  the  time  drew  near,"  he  wrote  years  after,— 
"When  the  time  drew  near  that  I  should  apply  for 
admission  at  Yale,  my  father  told  me  that  his  means 
did  not  allow  him  to  maintain  me  at  New  Haven, 
and  that  I  must  give  up  the  idea  of  a  full  course  of 
education.  I  have  always  thought  this  unfortunate 
for  me,  since  it  left  me  but  superficially  acquainted 
with  several  branches  of  education  which  a  college 
course  would  have  enabled  me  to  master  and  would 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  225 

have  given  me  greater  readiness  in   their  applica- 
tion." 

His  father's  scant  means  put  an  abrupt  termina- 
tion to  Bryant's  college  education  and  compelled 
him  to  settle  down  to  hard  manual  labor  on  the 
farm.  The  years  spent  on  the  farm  were  not,  how- 
ever, without  some  compensation.  They  afforded 
young  Bryant's  teeming  fancy  ample  opportunity 
to  build  for  him  a  world  of  his  own  liking  and  to 
mark  out,  at  his  leisure,  the  lines  of  his  future  ac- 
livity  and  development.  His  proximity  to  nature 
incident  to  his  rural  occupation  furnished  his  aspir- 
ing mind  fresh  inspiration  as  well  as  themes  for 
poetic  treatment,  which  were  destined  to  expand 
with  his  growing  years.  It  was  during  this  forma- 
tive period  spent  on  his  father's  farm  that  he  drank 
in  that  beauty  and  love  of  nature  which  not  only 
kindled  his  imagination  and  compelled  its  expres- 
sion in  undying  verse,  but  which  abode  with  him  all 
those  long  years  afterwards  as  editor  in  the  great 
metropolis  and  kept  his  heart  young  and  aglow  with 
interest  in  public  affairs,  even  to  the  very  end  of  his 
long  life. 

Yet  Bryant  was  not  entirely  cut  off  from  books 
during  those  years  of  enforced  farm  life.  He  fully 
explored  his  father's  library,  and  his  interest  was 
absorbed,  in  turn,  in  chemistry,  botany  and  litera- 
ture. He  narrowly  missed  adopting  medicine  as  his 
profession  and  becoming  a  country  doctor,  as  his 
paternal  ancestors  for  three  successive  generations 
had  been.  His  own  inclination  and  taste  marked 
out  for  him  a  literary  career.  But  he  was  unwill- 
ing, in  his  impecunious  condition,  to  risk  his  fortune 
on  so  capricious  a  profession  as  the  vocation  of  let- 
ters in  America  then  was.  He,  therefore,  compro- 
mised on  law  as  his  second  choice,  and  in  the  adja- 


226  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

cent  towns  of  Bridgewater  and  Worthington  he 
endeavored  to  explore  its  mysteries.  His  heart, 
however,  was  not  in  law.  Literature  proved  the  en- 
grossing rival  of  his  legal  studies  and  awakened  in 
his  mind  a  growing  discontent  with  law.  His  pur- 
pose to  become  a  lawyer,  therefore,  wavered.  Even 
while  he  was  seeking  for  a  promising  place  in  which 
to  begin  the  practice  of  his  profession,  his  absorbing 
love  for  letters  asserted  the  supremacy  and  fired 
his  poetic  imagination  to  the  production  of  those 
chaste,  beautiful  lines  "To  a  Waterfowl."  While 
wending  his  way,  late  on  a  December  afternoon,  in 
1815,  to  the  neighboring  town  of  Plainfield,  where 
he  proposed  to  establish  himself  as  a  lawyer,  forlorn 
and  desolate  he  descried  the  figure  of  a  solitary 
bird  winging  its  flight  along  the  western  horizon, 
then  flooded  with  a  rich  splendor  of  the  gorgeous 
colors  of  sunset.  Watching  the  lone  wanderer  till  it 
faded  out  of  sight  in  the  twilight  distance,  he  re- 
sumed his  journey  with  fresh  courage  and  with 
stronger  faith  in  the  unknown  future.  On  reaching 
his  destination,  in  the  evening,  he  sat  down  and 
wrote  his  classic  lines  "To  a  Waterfowl." 

After  a  year's  practice  of  law  at  Plainfield  and 
nine  years  more  of  it  at  Great  Barrigton,  Bryant, 
although  by  no  means  a  briefless  barrister,  decided 
to  abandon  the  legal  profession  as  unsuited  to  his 
taste.  He  thereupon  resolved  to  move  to  New  York 
City  and  devote  himself  to  journalism,  believing  it 
would  afford  him  a  more  congenial  occupation. 
Accordingly,  in  1826,  when  he  was  in  his  thirty- 
third  year,  we  find  Bryant,  after  several  experi- 
ments in  newspaper  work,  permanently  established 
in  New  York  as  the  associate  editor  of  the  Even  in  <j 
/Vs/,  only  three  years  later  to  succeed  to  the  impor- 
tant position  of  editor-in-chief  and  joint  proprietor. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  227 

From  that  date  his  life  and  labors  were  bound  up 
with  the  fortunes  of  that  sheet;  and  by  dint  of  his 
own  untiring  energy  and  unfaltering  faith  he  suc- 
ceeded in  elevating  that  journal  to  a  unique  place  in 
the  forefront  of  American  newspapers. 

Bryant's  far-reaching  influence  upon  American 
journalism  cannot  be  estimated.  It  is  not  an  exag- 
geration to  say  that  under  his  leadership  the  entire 
character  of  American  journalism  was  transformed. 
In  the  words  of  his  colleague  and  biographer,  John 
Bigelow,  "Journalism  when  Bryant  entered  the  pro- 
fession was  as  little  like  the  journalism  of  1889  as 
Jason's  fifty-oared  craft  Argo  was  like  a  modern 
steam  packet."  By  virtue  of  his  unimpeachable 
honesty  and  integrity,  and  by  his  clean  business 
methods  no  less  than  by  his  extraordinary  ability  as 
an  editor,  Bryant  furnished  a  striking  illustration 
of  the  fact  that  the  newspaper  can  be  made  one  of 
the  great  educational  forces  in  the  world  in  enlight- 
ening the  masses  and  in  directing  and  shaping  pub- 
lic opinion  on  a  high  moral  plane.  The  pioneer  work 
of  Bryant  in  this  field  was  infectious,  and  the  high 
moral  tone  of  his  paper  proved  a  stimulus  to  other 
New  York  journals  which  have  striven  to  emulate 
the  rich  traditions  of  the  Evening  Post.  Bryant's 
editorial  career  covered  a  half  century  of  the  most 
momentous  period  of  our  national  existence;  and 
during  this  time  he  spoke  out,  with  no  uncertain 
sound,  upon  the  many  questions  of  national  and 
international  politics  involving  the  interests  and 
welfare  of  the  American  people.  The  editorial  col- 
umns of  the  Evening  Post  during  those  fifty  years 
furnish  a  complete  and  unbroken  record  of  the 
growth  and  development  of  political  thought  in  the 
United  States.  There  is  no  matter  of  public  concern 
falling  within  the  domain  of  journalism,  during 


228  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

that  period,  which  Bryant  did  not  deal  with  and 
express  an  opinion  upon  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
command  the  respectful  consideration  of  those  even 
who  did  not  accept  his  conclusions.  He  was  no  tem- 
porizer or  trimmer  waiting  to  take  his  cue  from  his 
own  clientele  and  reflect  their  opinion  simply.  He 
had  the  moral  courage  to  utter  his  own  convictions 
whether  indorsed  by  his  own  patrons  or  not,  and  he 
considered  it  his  duty  to  help  create  a  sound, 
healthy  public  opinion  by  speaking  out  his  senti- 
ments in  advance.  He  took  high  ground  in  his  dis- 
cussion of  all  the  important  questions  of  the  day, 
such  as  the  Bank  of  the  United  States,  the  tariff, 
nullification,  slavery  and  the  like,  and  defended  his 
position  ably  and  vigorously,  giving  forceful  utter- 
ance to  his  convictions. 

Bryant's  arduous  duties  as  editor  were  inter- 
rupted by  occasional  visits  to  Europe  (he  made  six 
trips  in  all )  and  the  Orient,  to  Mexico,  Cuba  and  the 
West  Indies.  Nor  were  these  mere  pleasure  trips. 
They  served  the  desirable  end  of  enhancing  Bryant's 
capacity  as  a  keen  and  acute  interpreter  of  affairs 
in  general  and  of  deepening  and  broadening  his 
culture  as  a  man,  so  that  in  his  latter  days  he  was 
regarded  perhaps  the  most  cultured  man  in  Amer- 
ica, and  universally  esteemed  and  respected.  His 
success  as  a  journalist  soon  placed  him  beyond  that 
pecuniary  embarrassment  which  so  harassed  his 
early  years ;  and  his  audax  paupertas  which  he  ex- 
perienced while  a  young  man  struggling  for  recog- 
nition in  the  world,  as  in  the  case  of  Horace, 
remained  only  as  a  memory  in  his  riper  years.  He 
bought  himself  a  fine  country  home,  "Roslyn,"  on 
Long  Island;  and  in  1865  he  bought  back  his  old 
homestead  at  Cummington.  This  latter  place  he 
purchased  not  so  much  to  gratify  a  worthy  senti- 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT  229 

ment  as  in  the  hope  that  the  high  altitude  of  the 
locality  might  benefit  his  wife's  health,  then  rapidly 
failing. 

Bryant  wrote  several  prose  volumes  during  his 
long  career,  including  books  of  travel  and  occa- 
sional addresses.  He  developed  a  clear,  concise  and 
vigorous  prose  style ;  and  his  prose  works  afford  at 
once  engaging  and  stimulating  reading.  Like  most 
devotees  of  the  Muse,  he  made  himself  master  of  the 
art  of  expression.  He  was  a  conservator  of  the  best 
traditions  of  English  prose  in  all  its  purity  and 
simplicity  and  never  used  a  neologism  if  there  was 
a  classic  word  in  the  vernacular  to  convey  his  mean- 
ing. His  plain,  homespun  diction  is  not  the  least 
attractive  quality  of  his  admirable  style.  However, 
his  fame  as  a  man  of  letters  reposes  not  on  his 
achievement  as  master  of  a  superior  prose  style,  nor 
on  his  brilliant  pioneer  work  in  the  history  of  Amer- 
ican journalism.  To  be  sure,  he  is  not  a  negligible 
quantity  in  either  of  these  closely  allied  depart- 
ments of  literary  activity.  Far  from  this,  he  left 
behind  him  a  record  worthy  of  admiration  in  every 
respect,  and  his  accomplishment  as  a  prose  writer 
has  enriched  our  literature.  But  it  is  as  a  poet 
chiefly  that  he  has  won  for  himself  a  conspicuous 
place  among  our  literary  leaders,  and  it  is  his 
poetry  that  is  destined  to  perpetuate  his  name  in 
the  history  of  American  literature  after  his  prose 
has  long  since  been  forgotten.  Indeed,  even  now, 
though  only  a  quarter  of  a  century  since  his  death, 
he  is  much  more  favorably  and  widely  known  by  his 
verse  than  by  his  prose.  Yet  he  was  not  a  prolific 
poet.  So  exacting  were  his  duties  as  editor  that 
he  had  little  time  left  for  courting  the  muse  of 
poetry.  He  was  a  poet  by  nature,  by  instinct,  as  is 
every  true  poet;  and  ever  and  anon  he  would  lapse 


230  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

into  verse  even  in  the  editor's  sanctum  and  produce 
an  occasional  poem,  which  was  far  removed  from 
the  sort  technically  described  as  vers  d'  occasion. 
The  total  output  of  his  muse  hardly  exceeded  one 
hundred  and  sixty  poems,  aggregating  about  thir- 
teen thousand  lines.  Of  these  one-third  were  writ- 
ten before  he  became  connected  with  the  Evening 
Post.  In  1821  he  published  a  pamphlet  collection 
of  his  poems,  and  ten  years  later  he  augmented 
this  number  by  the  addition  of  eighty  other  poems 
written  during  that  decade.  This  collection  he 
caused  to  be  introduced  to  British  readers  through 
the  kindly  offices  of  his  friend  Washington  Irving, 
then  residing  abroad ;  and  thus  his  fame  spread  be- 
yond our  shores  to  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
It  was  his  custom  to  incorporate  his  new  poems  into 
his  previous  collection,  and  not  to  publish  them  sep- 
arately as  an  entirely  new  edition. 

Bryant  never  grew  old,  at  least  in  his  faculties 
and  feelings.  It  is  true  that  he  attained  the  patri- 
archal age  of  eighty-four,  but  till  the  day  of  his  fatal 
fall  his  faculties,  both  mental  and  physical,  were 
still  unimpaired,  and  his  heart  was  almost  as  young 
as  on  the  day  when  he  came  to  New  York  more  than 
fifty  years  before,  as  an  adventurer  seeking  fame 
and  fortune.  His  famous  translation. of  Homer— 
the  execution  of  which  would  naturally  tax  the 
strength  of  a  scholar  even  in  the  very  prime  of  life- 
was  hardly  begun  till  18GG,  when  its  author  had  al- 
ready rounded  out  the  full  scriptural  limit  of 
human  life.  Indeed,  the  laborious  undertaking  it- 
self, truly  courageous  for  a  man  of  Bryant's  ad- 
vanced age,  bears  mute  testimony  to  the  man's  in- 
domitable resolution  and  energy  no  less  than  to  his 
characteristic  buoyancy  of  temper.  The  death  of 
his  wife  produced  in  him  a  growing  indisposition 


WILLIAM   CULLKX    P.KYANT  231 

for  severe  work  and  a  yearning  for  some  light  em- 
ployment to  engage  his  attention  and  thus  divert  his 
mind  from  his  domestic  sorrow.  His  occasional 
translations  of  some  passages  from  Homer,  previ- 
ously made,  furnished  him  the  suggestion  desired, 
and  he  thereupon  determined  to  turn  his  attention 
to  this  new  departure  from  his  absorbing  labors  as 
a  journalist.  Sailing  on  his  sixth  voyage  to  Eu- 
rope, with  a  copy  of  Homer  in  his  pocket,  he  set 
himself  (lie  daily  task  of  translating  at  least  forty 
lines  of  the  Iliad  during  the  entire  time  of  his  trav- 
els. Four  years  later  he  had  finished  his  self- 
imposed  task,  and  in  June,  1870,  his  complete 
translation  of  the  Iliad  in  two  volumes  was  given  to 
the  public.  His  own  account  of  the  labor  involved 
in  the  undertaking,  as  expressed  some  years  later  in 
a  letter  to  his  friend  Dana,  is  indicative  of  Bryant's 
cheerfulness  in  old  age  and  of  his  sunny  disposition. 
"I  did  not  find  the  work  of  rendering  Homer  into 
blank  verse  very  fatiguing,77  he  says  in  this  letter, 
"and  perhaps  it  was  the  most  suitable  occupation 
for  an  old  man  like  me,  who  feels  the  necessity  of 
being  busy  about  something  and  yet  does  not  like 
hard  work.77 

Bryant  had  no  sooner  seen  the  Iliad  through  the 
press  than  he  took  up  the  Odyssey.  He  pursued  the 
congenial  task  of  rendering  this  supplementary 
Homeric  epic  into  English  with  even  more  ceaseless 
diligence  than  he  did  the  Iliad.  So  eager  was  he 
to  complete  his  energetic  plan  of  translating  the 
whole  of  Homer  before  death  should  interrupt  the 
work,  that,  by  the  end  of  the  year  1871,  he  had  dis- 
patched the  concluding  instalment  of  the  Odyssey 
manuscript  to  his  publishers.  Though  finished  in 
its  authors  seventy-seventh  year,  the  translation 
reveals  no  mark  of  senile  work.  Far  from  showing 


232  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  defects  and  weaknesses  incident  to  old  age,  the 
version  is  remarkably  accurate,  spirited,  rhythmical 
and  noble  withal. 

The  translation  of  the  Odyssey  proved  the  last 
sheaf  of  Bryant's  literary  harvest.  He  did  not  ven- 
ture to  embark  on  another  enterprise  of  pith  and 
moment.  For  his  ripe  old  age  warned  him  that  he 
must  content  himself  with  his  past  accomplishment 
in  letters  and  that  henceforth  he  must  husband  his 
waning  strength  and  powers  for  the  remnant  of 
life.  The  octogenarian  author  was  gratified  to  live 
to  witness  the  cordial  reception  accorded  his  last 
work  by  his  own  countrymen.  The  critics  and 
scholars  were  especially  enthusiastic  in  their  praise. 
Somehow,  they  felt  that  Homer  had  never  before 
been  brought  so  near  them  as  in  Bryant's  blank 
verse  rendering,  and  the  conviction  that  our  litera- 
ture had  been  materially  and  permanently  enriched 
by  this  new  successful  achievement  grew  apace,  and 
was  not  confined  to  Hellenists  simply,  but  was 
shared  by  American  scholars  in  general.  Nor  was 
this  verdict  the  product  of  sympathy  for  the  aged 
poet — what  Euskin  perhaps  calls  the  pathetic  fal- 
lacy— or  of  prejudice  against  Pope's  translation,  be- 
cause he  was  British  and  Bryant  American.  This 
latter  alternative  would  indicate  sheer  provincial- 
ism. Yet  Bryant's  version  inevitably  invites  com- 
parison with  Pope's,  and  does  not  suffer  much  by 
the  comparison.  For  Bryant  seems,  even  more  than 
Pope,  to  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  old  blind  bard 
of  Hellas,  and  his  admirable  blank  verse  appears  to 
be  a  closer  approach  to  the  original  than  the  effect 
of  Pope's  metre.  Bryant's  Homer  is  conceded  by 
the  critics  to  possess  a  striking  fidelity  to  the 
Greek,  with  a  minimum  of  rhetorical  adornment  or 
surplusage  rendered  imperative  by  the  exigencies  of 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT  233 

the  verse.  This  is  hardly  the  place  for  a  detailed 
comparison  of  (he  relative  merits  of  these  two 
standard  translations  of  Homer.  In  dismissing  the 
subject,  suffice  it  to  say  that  Bryant's  version  has 
never  vet  elicited  from  a  competent  critic  the  with- 
ering comment  which  Bentley  passed  on  Pope's :  "A 
pretty  poem,  Mr.  Pope,  but  you  must  not  call  it 
Homer." 

Mryant's  death  in  his  eighty-fourth  year  was  the 
result  of  an  accident.  In  the  latter  part  of  May, 
1878,  on  a  warm  afternoon,  he  delivered  an  address 
in  Central  Park,  on  the  occasion  of  the  unveiling  of 
a  statue  to  the  Italian  patriot  Mazzini.  On  his  re- 
turn the  aged  journalist  and  poet  fell,  while  mount- 
ing the  steps  of  the  house  of  his  friend  General  Wil- 
son, and  struck  his  head  on  the  stones,  causing  con- 
cussion of  the  brain.  After  lingering  in  a  coma- 
tose condition  for  two  weeks,  he  passed  away,  leav- 
ing behind  him  as  a  priceless  heritage  to  his  hosts 
of  friends  and  admirers  the  record  of  a  pure,  exalted 
and  noble  Christian  life.  Perhaps  it  is  safe  to 
affirm  that  no  man  in  America  commanded  more 
universal  respect  and  reverence  than  Bryant  did 
"when  his  summons  came  to  join  the  innumerable 
caravan."  At  his  death,  press  and  platform  seemed 
to  vie  with  each  other  in  paying  glowing,  generous 
tribute  to  his  memory. 

When  we  come  to  review  and  analyze  Bryant's 
poetry,  in  order  to  discover  the  quality  and  limita- 
tions of  his  genius,  we  find  some  notable  results. 
To  begin  with,  he  was  a  born  singer.  Like  Pope, 
whose  verse  was  not  without  considerable  influence 
on  our  author's  formative  period,  Bryant  almost 
lisped  in  numbers,  and  early  recognized  his  poetic 
mission.  He  is  the  first  American  poet  in  whom 
the  national  consciousness  is  thoroughly  awakened 


234  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

and  in  whom  it  expresses  itself  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  make  itself  felt  far  and  wide  throughout  the  coun- 
try. No  great  poet  had  preceded  him  in  this  vast 
republic  on  the  western  hemisphere.  Songsters 
there  had  been,  to  be  sure,  who  piped  a  beautiful 
song  here  and  there;  but  there  had  been  no  singer 
of  undisputed  supremacy  whose  note  touched  the 
national  consciousness  and  challenged  universal 
admiration.  Freneau,  "the  poet  of  the  Revolution," 
was  a  graceful  singer,  the  author  of  the  "Wild 
Honeysuckle"  and  the  "Home  of  Night,"  but  he  left 
behind  very  little  to  redeem  his  name  from  oblivion 
and  was,  after  all,  provincial.  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake,  the  so-called  American  Keats,  wrote  two  im- 
passioned, though  immature  odes  which  still  com- 
mand admiration:  and  John  Howard  Payne  will 
long  be  remembAraito^is  immortal  lyrics,  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  anojyie  "Star-Spangled  Banner." 
But  neither  of  those  authors  ever  attained  to  the 
dignity  and  rank  of  a  great  poet  or  can  claim  the 
distinction  of  a  truly  national  representative 
singer.  Poe,  while  fully  the  rival  and  peer  of  Bry- 
ant in  the  beauty  and  polish  of  his  poems,  and  far 
surpassing  him  in  imagination  and  technical  execu- 
tion, as  well  as  in  the  melody  of  his  verse,  yet  has 
nothing  distinctly  national  about  him,  nothing  that 
smacks  of  the  soil  from  which  he  was  sprung.  More- 
over, Bryant's  reputation  was  established  before 
Poe  began  to  write.  It  may  be  objected  that  Bry- 
ant was  the  poet  of  Puritanism.  This  cannot  be 
gainsaid.  But  it  is  equally  true  (hat,  though  the 
poet  of  Puritanism,  Bryant  was  at  the  same  time 
the  first  American  poet  whose  verse  breathes  the 
spirit  of  the  national  consciousness  and  the  spirit 
of  American  nature  and  landscape  scenery.  Under 
the  influence  of  Pope  and  Wordsworth,  Bryant 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT  235 

learned  the  best  traditions  of  English  poetry  and 
incorporated  them  into  his  own  \vrs<>,  with  its  broad 
outlook  on  nature  and  on  life.  Bryant,  therefore, 
has  no  successful  rival  to  his  claim  as  the  "father 
of  American  song."  He  is  the  first  of  our  American 
poets,  in  point  of  time,  whose  place  in  English  liter- 
ature is  definitely  assured. 

No  quality  of  Bryant's  poetry  is  more  noteworthy 
than  his  extraordinary  precocity.  In  poetry,  as  in 
prose,  maturity  of  art  usually  comes  with  years  of 
unremitting  toil  and  practice.  But  Bryant  served 
no  apprenticeship.  His  maiden  poem  "Thanatop- 
sis,"  though  thrust  aside  into  a  pigeon-hole  and  not 
published  till  years  after  it  was  written,  was  as 
faultless  in  quality  and  execution  as  the  best  pro- 
duction of  his  mature  genius.  The  seventeen-year- 
old  author  of  "Thanatopsis,"  who  also  wrote  his 
lines  "To  a  Waterfowl"  before  he  attained  his  ma- 
jority, even  with  all  the  practice  and  accumulated 
experience  of  many  years  spent  in  productive  liter- 
ary work,  never  succeeded  in  striking  a  more  melodi- 
ous note  or  teaching  a  profounder  philosophy  than 
he  expressed  in  his  first  two  lyrics.  The  key  of  his 
song,  of  course,  varied,  but  the  rhythm  and  quality 
remained  almost  on  the  same  level.  He  enhanced 
the  beauty  of  his  later  poetry  by  broadening  its 
range  rather  than  by  improving  its  quality  and  he 
never  surpassed  the  high  standard  of  excellence  es- 
tablished by  the  first  products  of  his  muse.  In  this 
respect  Bryant's  example  sets  at  naught  all  literary 
traditions,  and  forms  an  exception  to  the  rule  of 
poetic  development. 

Bryant's  chief  source  of  inspiration  is  nature,  and 
as  a  poet  of  nature  he  shows  his  affinity  and  kinship 
with  the  renowned  master  of  the  Lake  school  of 
English  poets.  No  element  of  our  bard's  poetry  is 


236  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

more  characteristic  or  more  universally  appreciated 
than  his  nature  poems.  His  love  of  nature  was 
little  short  of  passionate  and,  moreover,  it  expressed 
itself  in  a  number  of  lyrics  which  constitute  his 
finest  work.  A  notable  example  is  his  ode  "To  the 
Fringed  Gentian,"  to  mention  a  specific  example. 
In  his  familiar,  pathetic  verses  on  "Death  of  the 
Flowers,"  equally  illustrative  of  his  penetrating 
love  of  nature,  he  touches  an  elegiac  chord  which 
contributes  not  a  little  to  the  tender  charm  of  the 
piece. 

Another  quality  of  Bryant's  genius  is  exhibited 
in  the  meditative,  reflective  character  of  his  poetry. 
This  distinctive  feature  of  his  verse  appears  in  his 
very  first  song,  "Thanatopsis,"  and,  like  a  golden 
thread,  can  be  traced  through  the  warp  and  woof  of 
his  entire  poetic  fabric.  "Thanatopsis"  is  reputed 
to  have  been  written  under  the  immediate  inspira- 
tion of  Kirk  White's  melancholy  poem  "The 
Grave,"  which  superinduced  in  young  Bryant's 
muse  a  meditative,  pensive  mood.  This  seems  a 
a  sufficient  explanation  of  the  sombre,  reflective 
vein  running  through  this  chaste  and  classic  song. 
But  this  element  is  found  in  all  of  Bryant's  themes 
and  marks  his  genius.  It  was  his  habit  to  meditate 
on  the  significance  of  life,  its  moral  meaning,  and 
upon  death  and  the  hereafter.  In  the  contempla- 
tion of  such  disturbing  questions  his  deep  religious 
nature  and  Puritanism  afforded  him  consolation 
and  peace,  and  he  naturally  gave  utterance  to  his 
feelings  in  his  song. 

Like  all  the  poets  of  the  New  England  school, 
Bryant  could  hardly  resist  the  temptation  to  use 
his  song  to  point  a  moral.     He  felt  compelled— 
such  was  his  Puritan  nature — to  teach  religious 
truth  even  in  his  verse,  to  give  a  moral  turn  to  every 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  237 

poetic  scene  or  thought  that  kindled  his  i  inn  filia- 
tion. To  him  beauty  did  not  appear  a  sufficient 
excuse  for  its  own  being,  as  it  did  to  Poe,  and  Bry- 
ant, therefore,  subordinated  it  to  the  higher  end,  in 
his  eyes,  of  conveying  religious  instruction.  This 
didactic  feature  is  repugnant  to  modern  canons  of 
art;  and,  for  this  reason,  some  of  the  critics  dis- 
parage Bryant's  verse,  relegating  it  to  the  limbo  of 
mere  religious  poetry.  Yet  it  is  this  very  religious 
quality  that  explains,  in  large  measure,  the  hold  of 
IBryant's  poetry  upon  the  people,  his  widespread 
popularity.  The  American  people,  by  and  large, 
are  not  critical,  and  hence  their  literary  sensibili- 
ties are  not  offended  by  a  poem  wTith  "a  moral  tag." 
Bryant's  most  noticeable  defect  is,  probably,  his 
narrowness  of  range,  He  sang  mostly  in  one  note. 
There  are  themes  unlimited  in  number,  capable  of 
beautiful  poetic  interpretation  and  treatment, 
which  did  not,  apparently,  appeal  to  his  muse.  But 
this  fault  is  not  peculiar  to  Bryant:  it  is  common 
to  most  poets.  It  is  only  the  very  great  singers  who 
have  a  wide  register  and  are  capable  of  running  the 
entire  gamut  of  song.  Some  critics  find  Bryant 
cold  and  lacking  in  breadth  of  sympathy  and  also 
in  spontaneity.  The  criticism  is  not  without  some 
foundation  in  fact.  Bryant,  the  man,  was  not  a 
warm-hearted,  impulsive,  magnetic  personality. 
He  was  reserved,  cautious  and  calculating,  but 
pure,  noble  and  generous  withal.  It  is  but  natural, 
therefore,  that  his  verse,  in  its  limitations  as  well 
as  in  its  excellences,  should  reflect  somewhat  its  au- 
thor's character,  his  individuality.  Thus  Bryant's 
song  may  be  viewed  as  interpreting  himself  to  the 
world,  his  characteristic  thought  and  feeling.  He 
revealed  his  inner  nature  to  the  world  in  terms  of 
his  song. 


238  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Bryant  never  essayed  a  poem  requiring  prolonged 
effort  and  inspiration.  Like  Poe,  he  rejected  the 
theory  and  principle  of  the  long  poem  as  contrary 
to  the  recognized  canons  of  poetic  invention.  He 
contended  that,  on  analysis,  a  long  poem  simply 
resolves  itself  into  a  series  of  short  lyrics  of  more 
or  less  intensity  of  inspiration.  Moreover,  the 
ethical  element  in  Bryant's  poetry  does  not  comport 
well  with  a  long  narrative  or  descriptive  poem,  and 
he  had  sufficient  appreciation  of  the  divine  fitness 
of  things  not  to  attempt  to  reconcile  two  such  in- 
congruities. Our  poet's  chief  triumphs  are  found 
in  his  simple,  unimpassioned  lyrics  which  demand 
no  long-sustained  attention.  His  inspiration  was 
intermittent.  Nature  denied  him  the  dramatic 
power  of  invention  and  constructive  skill,  such  as  a 
long  narrative  poem  like  "Hiawatha"  implies  in  its 
author.  She  also  denied  the  intensity  of  passion 
necessary  for  the  production  of  erotic  verse.  Bry- 
ant's nearest  approach  to  fervor  and  passion  is  per- 
haps found  in  his  patriotic  song,  "The  Battlefield," 
of  which  some  lines  have  won  a  Avide  currency. 

Bryant's  choice  in  the  use  of  his  metres  is  as 
limited  and  narrow  as  is  the  range  of  his  themes. 
In  keeping  with  his  simplicity  of  manner,  he  con- 
fined himself  to  a  few  familiar  metres,  never  once 
inventing  or  using  any  intricate  forms.  In  his 
stanzaic  forms  he  harked  back  to  the  eighteenth 
century  models  and  attempted  few  or  none  of  the 
metrical  effects,  such  as  engaged  the  attention  of 
those  masters  of  rhythm,  Poe  and  S \viuburne.  Yet 
Bryant  was  an  expert  in  versification ;  and  probably 
no  poet  was  more  skilled  in  I  he  technique,  the  archi- 
tectonics of  verse,  than  was  he.  His  rhymes,  too, 
are  as  scrupulously  accurate  as  his  verses  are  cor- 
rect and  polished.  He  bestowed  upon  their  struc- 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  239 

ture  unstinted  care  and  spared  not  the  labor  of  the 
file.  Hence  his  verses,  in  respect  of  their  polish  and 
finish,  compel  our  admiration,  even  when  the  senti- 
ment seems  cold  and  wanting  in  inspiration.  The 
beauty  of  his  blank  verse  excited  the  envy  of  his 
fellow-poets  and  filled  them  with  despair.  The  skill 
with  which  he  handled  this  difficult  metre,  as  re- 
vealed in  his  "Thanatopsis,"  that  famous  produc- 
tion of  his  boyhood,  proved  the  poetical  marvel  of 
his  age,  and  even  now  can  only  be  explained  as  con- 
clusive evidence  of  his  precocious  genius. 

It  follows,  therefore,  that  Bryant  occupies  no  in- 
significant, no  inconspicuous  place  in  the  history  of 
American  letters.  He  appears  a  calm,  dignified, 
noble  seer  who  had  visions,  ever  and  anon,  of  the 
grand  divine  purpose  concerning  man,  and  who  felt 
impelled  to  teach  the  people  the  high  moral  signifi- 
cance of  life  and  death  as  related  to  the  Great  Be- 
yond. Like  one  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  prophets, 
he  caught  now  and  then  inspiring  glimpses  of  man's 
sublime  destiny  and  interpreted  it  to  us  in  terms 
of  song. 


BRYANT 
TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets'  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  at  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,   and  naked  woods,   and   meadows 

brown  and  sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves 

lie  dead ; 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT  241 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

trend  : 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood? 

Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good 
of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  No- 
vember rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  sum- 
mer glow; 

But  on  the  hills  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn 
beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  up- 
land, glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home; 


242  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 
the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fra- 
grance late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 
no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty 

died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my 

side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests 

cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend 

of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Ghee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 

White  are  his-  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  243 

Bob-oMink,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can ! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert's  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 


244  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Ghee,  chee,  chee. 

Kobert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care : 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes ;  the  children  are  grown ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Kobert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  245 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast— 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  has  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


246  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

THANATOPSIS 

WRITTEN   IN   THE    FOETUS  EIGHTEENTH    YEAR 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless-  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.    The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 


\YILUAM:  CULLEN  BRYANT  247 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth— the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men, 


248  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

The  youth  in  life's  fresh  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man- 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


CHAPTER  X 
HENEY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

It  has  been  now  somewhat  more  than  a  score  of 
years  since  the  death  of  Longfellow.  Perhaps  we 
are  not  yet  far  enough  removed  from  his  day  to 
form  an  impartial  estimate  of  the  rank  and  place  in 
our  literature  which  this  deservedly  popular  poet  is 
destined  to  occupy.  It  requires  a  considerable 
lapse  of  time  to  dispel  the  illusion  and  glamour 
which  his  charming  poetry  cast  over  the  minds  of 
his  readers ;  and  it  may  be  that  we  are  not  yet  pre- 
pared to  examine  his  verse  in  the  cold  and  dispas- 
sionate light  of  criticism. 

Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland^  Maine,  in  1807. 
He  came  of  one  of  the  first  New  England  families, 
and  his  father,  who  was  a  successful  lawyer,  spared 
no  expense  to  equip  his  son  fully  for  a  literary  life. 
The  way,  therefore,  was  made  smooth  for  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow  to  attain  to  the  eminent 
distinction  of  being  America's  most  popular  poet 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  It  seems  fitting  to  review 
his  poetic  achievement  and  inquire  whether  the  fore- 
most American  poet  of  a  generation  ago  is  still  hold- 
ing his  own.  It  is  possible  that  his  popularity  has 
been  eclipsed  by  the  fame  of  some  bard  whose  star 
had  not  risen  two  decades  ago. 

In  his  own  time,  as  just  stated,  Longfellow  en- 
joyed a  wider  fame  than  any  other  poet,  alive  or 
dead,  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Emerson  was 
doubtless  a  profounder  thinker  and  more  philosoph- 
ical, and  appealed  more  powerfully  to  a  select  circle 


250  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  readers.  But  he  was  the  recognized  exponent  of 
a  certain  school,  and  his  audience  was  therefore 
limited.  Whittier's  verse  smacked  too  much  of  a 
party,  or  of  a  section,  to  be  universally  admired. 
Profoundly  stirred  by  the  evils  of  slavery,  he  canie 
to  regard  himself,  for  the  nonce,  as  the  poetic 
mouthpiece  of  the  Abolition  party,  and  when  his 
party  passed  away  together  with  the  cause  which 
called  it  into  being,  Whittier's  poetry  lost  much  of 
its  power  and  charm,  even  for  his  most  zealous  co- 
partizans.  Lowell  was  perhaps  more  brilliant  and 
versatile  than  Longfellow ;  but  he  was  rather  book- 
ish, and  his  poetry  is  not  infrequently  open  to  the 
charge  of  pedantry.  Bryant  was  chaste  and  fin- 
ished and  grand  even;  but  his  poetry  was  as  life- 
less and  as  cold  as  marble.  There  was  no  fire  or 
passion  in  it :  it  came  from  the  head,  not  from  the 
heart.  Longfellow,  however,  "looked  into  his  own 
heart  and  wrote" ;  and  he  touched  in  his  song  those 
chords  which  awaken  an  echo  in  every  heart.  For 
this  reason  his  poetry  approximates  that  class  of 
literature  which  critics  sometimes  denominate 
"universal."  Not  that  Longfellow  deserves  to  rank 
with  the  world's  great  poets,  for  he  does  not:  nor 
would  the  most  ardent  admirers  of  his  genius  make 
any  such  claim  for  him.  But  his  poetry  has  more 
in  it  that  appeals  to  the  human  heart  than  has  the 
poetry  of  any  of  his  American  contemporaries. 

Longfellow's  fame  is  not  confined  to  America. 
He  is  favorably  known  in  Europe.  No  other 
American  poet,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Poe, 
is  so  widely  known  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
Indeed,  it  is  questionable  that  Poe  forms  an  excep- 
tion. For  while  Poe  is  much  read  on  the  Continent, 
especially  in  France,  still  it  is  his  tales  rather  than 
his  poetry  that  foreigners  read.  Longfellow's 


HENRY    \VA!»S\Y()RT1L    LONUFKLLOW  251 

poetry  has  been  far  more  extensively  translated. 
His  recent  biographer  is  authority  for  the  state- 
incut  that  there  have  been  one  hundred  versions,  in 
whole  or  in  part,  of  Longfellow's  work,  extending 
into  eighteen  foreign  languages.  What  other 
American  author  can  equal,  much  less  surpass,  this 
flattering  record  of  appreciation? 

Longfellow  has  been  aptly  called  the  people's 
poet;  and,  in  the  judgment  of  many  discriminating 
critics,  the  title  is  well  founded  in  fact.  For  his  sym- 
pathies and  affections  were  ever  with  the  people; 
for  them  he  wrought,  for  them  he  sang.  By  educa- 
tion and  culture,  by  his  happy  faculty  of  literary 
expression  and  by  his  unfailing  good  taste  he  was 
peculiarly  qualified  and  equipped  for  this  office; 
and  herein  lies  the  secret  of  his  unbounded  popular- 
ity and  success.  His  message  was  not  erudite  or  eso- 
teric; nor  did  it  presuppose  any  extraordinary  de- 
gree of  mental  acumen  in  those  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  to  appreciate  it.  But  it  was  such  as  a 
man  of  average  intellectual  endowment  could  com- 
prehend and  appreciate.  In  this  respect  our  poet 
was  poles  removed  from  Browning,  whose  poetry 
fully  yields  its  hidden  meaning  only  to  the  most 
acute  and  best  trained  intellects.  But  Longfellow's 
simplicity  of  utterance  makes  his  poetry  readily 
"understanded  of  the  people"  and  renders  a  com- 
mentary unnecessary.  His  verse  is  at  once  lucid 
and  clear  and  melodious  and  beautiful.  Indeed, 
his  distinguishing  virtue  consists  in  his  power  of 
expressing  in  chaste,  lucid  and  musical  verse  what 
everybody  has  felt,  but  few  can  say  with  such 
felicity  of  phrase.  He  possessed  the  rare  faculty  of 
re-clothing  old,  familiar  truths  in  a  poetic  dress  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  give  them  the  appearance  of 
entirely  new  and  original  creations.  Difficile  est 


252  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

proprie  communia  dicere,  says  Horace,  himself  a 
master  in  the  art  of  literary  expression ;  but,  some- 
how, Longfellow  seems  to  have  acquired  the  secret 
of  this  difficult  art  of  putting  commonplace  things 
happily. 

Longfellow  was  of  a  poetic  temperament.  His 
taste  and  feelings  were  essentially  those  of  a  poet. 
This  is  evident  from  the  glamour  and  witchery  of 
phrase,  which  we  have  just  observed  as  character- 
istic of  his  style.  He  first  felt  the  poem  in  his  own 
soul,  and  then  he  translated  it  into  terms  of  sur- 
passing grace,  beauty  and  music.  Herein  lies  the 
secret  of  his  genius. 

Some  critics  are  willing  to  concede  Longfellow 
facility,  beauty  and  charm ;  but  they  deny  him  orig- 
inality. There  is  a  sense  in  which  this  criticism  is 
true ;  but,  like  all  half  truths,  the  dictum  is  mislead- 
ing and  does  the  poet  an  injustice.  Longfellow,  it 
is  true,  was  not  original  in  the  sense  in  which  Poe 
was  original;  nor  was  he  original  in  the  sense  in 
which  Browning  was  original.  It  is  not  probable 
that  Longfellow  possessed  as  high  a  degree  of  orig- 
inality perhaps  as  either  of  these  poets.  Yet,  if  by 
originality  is  meant  creative  genius,  then  Longfellow 
was  unquestionably  original.  For  does  it  not  require 
a  high  order  of  creative  genius  to  give  to  the  prosy, 
commonplace  sentiments  and  experiences  of  every- 
day life  poetic  form  and  beauty  and  spontaneity 
as  well?  Now,  this,  as  has  been  observed,  is  just 
what  Longfellow  has  done.  Let  us  have  done  there- 
fore with  the  cant  that  he  was  not  an  original  poet. 

Longfellow  achieved  his  greatest  triumphs  in 
lyrical  poetry.  As  a  dramatic  poet  he  was  not  a 
success.  But  this  is  no  great  disparagement.  It 
only  proves  that,  like  most  authors,  our  poet  had 
his  limitations.  For  few,  indeed,  are  the  poets  of 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW  253 

the  last  century  who  have  won  laurels  in  the  prov- 
ince of  the  drama.  Not  even  Tennyson  with  all  the 
glamour  of  his  name  could  make  one  of  his  dramas 
hold  the  stage.  Longfellow  produced  two  success- 
ful narrative  poems.  I }iii  it  is  not  chiefly  these  that 
have  won  him  his  enviable  reputation  as  the  poet  of 
the  people.  It  is  rather  his  sonnets,  his  shorter 
poems,  in  which  he  excelled.  Of  these  perhaps  the 
best  known  is  his  "Psalm  of  Life,"  now  as  familiar 
as  a  household  word.  This  contains  a  larger  number 
of  lines,  long  since  become  familiar  quotations,  than 
any  other  of  our  poet's  lyrics.  In  point  of  furnish- 
ing quotable  lines,  as  well  as  in  point  of  spontaneity 
and  general  excellence,  it  challenges  comparison 
with  Gray's  beautiful  Elegy.  Longfellow  gave  con- 
clusive proof  of  his  good  taste  and  sound  literary 
judgment  in  resisting  the  temptation  to  make  of  his 
theme  a  mere  didactic  poem.  He  speaks  to  us 
through  the  lines  of  this  psalm  as  standing,  not  on 
a  plane  above  and  beyond  us,  but  on  the  same  level 
with  us  and  as  being  himself  one  of  our  own  num- 
ber. The  poem  is  a  stirring  and  inspiriting  appeal 
for  sympathy,  of  a  man  who  aspires  with  us,  to  a 
higher  and  nobler  life.  There  is  nothing  of  didac- 
ticism about  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  imaginative 
and  spontaneous  and  pulsates  with  emotion  and 
sympathy. 

Worthy  of  special  mention  among  our  poet's 
lyrics  are  "Excelsior,"  "The  Reaper  and  the  Flow- 
ers/' "Footsteps  of  Angels,"  "Maidenhood"  and 
"Resignation."  These  are  all  excellent  and  have 
attained  a  wide  currency.  They  are  poems  instinct 
with  tender  sentiment  and  make  a  strong,  al- 
beit mute,  appeal  to  gentle  and  pensive  natures. 
Equally  beautiful  in  technical  execution,  though 
not  so  pathetic  perhaps,  are  such  snatches  of  song 


254  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

as  "Land  of  the  Desert,"  "The  Lighthouse,"  "The 
Jewish  Cemetery,"  and  "The  Arsenal."  In  the 
production  of  such  sonorous  trifles  (if  that  is  not 
too  frivolous  a  word  to  apply  to  these  songs),  Long- 
fellow stands  unexcelled  in  American  literature. 
Indeed,  few  English  singers  have  surpassed  him  in 
this  kind  of  verse. 

In  his  ballads,  such  as  "The  Skeleton  in  Armor" 
and  kindred  lyrics,  Longfellow  made  a  new  depar- 
ture and  entered  the  domain  of  romance.  This  and 
the  sad  sea  ballad,  "The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus," 
are  perhaps  his  finest.  But  however  much  critics 
may  praise  these  ballads,  we  feel  nevertheless  that 
the  romantic  vein  was  not  their  author's  forte. 
Probably  the  most  felicitous  sea  poem  that  Long- 
fellow wrote  was  "The  Building  of  the  Ship.''  This 
furnishes  a  noteworthy  example  of  his  metrical 
skill.  Moreover  it  is  full  of  energy  and  patriotic 
fervor  and  challenges  comparison  with  Horace's 
graceful,  patriotic  ode,  which  was  its  prototype. 
The  glowing  apostrophe  to  the  Union,  at  the  close, 
is  a  far  more  impassioned  appeal  to  patriotism  than 
Horace's  paean  of  victory  over  the  defeated  Cleo- 
patra. 

In  his  narrative  poems  Longfellow  blazed  out  an 
entirely  new  path  in  our  literature.  Accordingly, 
he  deserves  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  Ameri- 
can poet  to  compose  a  long  narrative  poem  the  in- 
terest of  which  is  sustained  throughout.  In  this 
respect  Longfellow  essayed  a  bold  undertaking,  but 
the  generous  and  cordial  welcome  which  "Evan- 
geline"  received  fully  justified  the  author's  daring 
attempt.  The  pathetic  story  of  "Evangeline"  is 
well  told,  and  the  delicate  descriptive  passages  here 
and  there  throughout  the  poem  indicate  the  pres- 
ence of  the  hand  of  a  master  artist.  The  concep- 


HENKY    WADSWOKTH   LONGFELLOW  255 

lion,  loo,  of  the  heroine,  in  her  noble  and  inspiring 
exam  pic  of  sacrifice  for  Hie  sake  of  her  lost  lover, 
is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  tender  and  pathetic.  The 
author  was  happy  both  in  conception  and  execu- 
tion, and  the  result  is  that  "Evangeline"  is  an  ex- 
quisite idyl  which  deserves  to  take  rank  as  a  classic 
by  the  side  of  Goldsmith's  "Deserted  Village." 
Still,  notwithstanding  its  beauty  and  pathos, 
"Evangel! ne"  is  not  a  poem  which  rivets  our  atten- 
tion and  co  P.I  pels  our  unqualified  admiration.  Con- 
sidered from  the  point  of  view  of  art,  the  poem  has 
blemishes  and  imperfections,  that  impair  its  charm 
and  beauty  not  a  little.  The  characters  are  not 
portrayed  with  that  skill  and  power  which  one 
could  desire.  They  do  not  stand  out  upon  the  page 
with  distinctness  and  with  clearness  of  outline. 
.Moreover,  there  are  long  stretches  of  narrative 
which  do  not  contribute  materially  to  the  develop- 
ment and  interest  of  the  story.  There  are  few 
dramatic  episodes,  though  the  poem  affords  numer- 
ous glimpses  of  interesting  and  picturesque  charac- 
ters. 

Perhaps  we  ought  to  take  "Evangeline,"  however, 
as  the  author  probably  intended  it,  viz.,  as  a  tender 
and  graceful  idyl  fashioned  out  of  a  beautiful  and 
pathetic  legend  of  early  American  history.  Viewed 
in  that  light  it  cannot  fail  to  charm  and  entertain 
the  reader.  But  if  we  attempt  to  apply  to  it  the 
canons  of  the  drama,  or  of  the  novel,  it  is  immedi- 
ately open  to  serious  criticism. 

Longfellow  culled  the  pathetic  legend  of  "Evan- 
Celine"  from  the  gray  dawn  of  our  country's  history 
and  suffused  it  with  a  soft  glow  of  his  poetic  imagi- 
nation, thus  imparting  to  it  its  charm  and  romantic 
interest,  and  made  of  it  "the  flower  of  American 
idyls."  But  the  poem  is  much  indebted  to  the  clas- 


256  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

sic  measure  the  author  chose,  for  its  beauty  and  for 
the  delightful  spell  it  casts  over  the  reader.  The 
selection  of  the  hexameter  for  the  meter  of  "Evan- 
geline"  seems  a  stroke  of  genius,  because  this  meter, 
somehow,  is  specially  well  adapted  to  the  bucolic 
love  story.  And  the  author  handled  this  difficult 
measure  with  rare  skill  and  deftness — so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  his  hexameters  challenge  comparison 
with  the  most  graceful  in  our  language.  Longfel- 
low has  hardly  yet  received  his  due  meed  of  ^praise 
for  his  service  in  helping  to  domicile  a  form  of  verse 
which  is  almost  universally  condemned  by  the 
critics  as  an  exotic  and  as  unadapted  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  English  poetry.  The  critics  poured  out 
the  vials  of  their  wrath  upon  his  head  for  such  a 
bold  attempt,  and  almost  exhausted  their  vocabu- 
lary of  censure.  All  this  Longfellow  anticipated, 
but  he  felt  that  the  hexameter  was  the  measure  for 
his  idyl,  and  so  he  adopted  it  despite  the  storm  of 
criticism  it  was  destined  to  call  forth.  In  no  point 
of  literary  art  did  our  bard  show  more  conclusive 
evidence  of  the  courage  of  his  convictions  than  in 
his  deliberate  choice  of  the  meter  for  his  "Evan- 
geline."  The  popularity  of  this  delightful  bucolic 
love  story  has  justified  his  choice  and  fully  vindi- 
cated the  soundness  of  his  judgment.  For  many 
of  the  familiar  lines  of  the  "Evangeline"  have  won 
their  currency  chiefly  through  the  sonorous  cadence 
and  roll  of  the  hexameter. 

The  "Courtship  of  Miles  Standish"  formed  a  com- 
panion piece  to  the  author's  favorite  idyl,  "Evan- 
geline."  The  former  is  a  Pilgrim  idyl  in  which 
Priscilla,  John  Alden  and  the  bluff  old  captain 
form  the  principal  figures.  It  is  so  familiar  as  to 
render  an  analysis  of  it  superfluous.  Though  not. 
so  popular  as  "Evaiigeline,"  the  "Courtship  of 


HENRY    \VADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW  257 

Miles  Standish"  marks  a  distinct  advance  upon  its 
predecessor  in  constructive  skill  and  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  the  characters.  The  figures  stand  out  with 
greater  defiuiteness  and  distinctness  of  outline. 
Not  the  least  noteworthy  feature  of  this  entertain- 
ing idyl  is  the  broad  humour  that  lights  up  the  con- 
ventional conception  of  the  Pilgrim  character  in 
those  far-off  times  in  our  history.  We  do  not 
usually  invest  that  character  with  much  charm  or 
romance.  But  Longfellow's  conception  glows  with 
a  warm  imagination  and  a  romantic  interest  more 
in  keeping  with  the  impulsive  character  of  the  Vir- 
ginia cavalier  than  with  the  cold,  impassive  charac- 
ter of  the  Pilgrim. 

In  his  narrative  poem  of  "Hiawatha"  Longfellow 
achieved  a  notable  success.  This  poem,  as  is  well 
known,  deals  with  the  manners,  customs  and 
legends  of  the  various  tribes  of  our  North  American 
Indians.  The  one  idea  which,  like  a  golden  cord, 
runs  through  the  twenty-two  different  legends  and 
binds  them  all  together,  giving  them  unity  and  har- 
mony, is  the  life  of  Hiawatha.  The  "Song  of  Hia- 
watha" is  a  distinctive  American  product  and 
smacks  of  the  soil  whence  it  sprang.  It  breathes 
the  wild  outdoor  odor  of  forest  and  stream  in  every 
line.  Its  strange  wildness  and  grim  weirdness,  as 
reflected  in  the  interplay  of  the  savage  aborigines 
upon  the  rugged  background  of  nature,  combine  to 
impart  to  the  poem  the  beauty  and  fascination  of  a 
fairy  tale.  The  characters  of  Hiawatha  and  of  his 
Indian  wife,  the  laughing  Minnehaha,  are  both  mas- 
terful poetic  conceptions,  such  as  only  a  true  poet 
would  or  could  conceive.  In  the  creation  of  these 
characters  Longfellow  gave  indisputable  proof  of 
his  inventive  genius  and  originality,  for  nothing 
approaching  "Hiawatha"  even  remotely  had  been 


258  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

attempted  before  in  our  literature,  and  nothing  has 
been  done  since  that  equals  it.  "Hiawatha,"  there- 
fore, stands  alone  in  American  literature;  and 
English  literature  offers  no  parallel  to  it. 

The  meter  conspired  with  the  subject  matter  of 
"Hiawatha"  to  make  the  poem  unique  and  original. 
For  the  characteristic  verse — rhymeless  trochaic 
dimeter — had  never  before  been  employed  in  a  long 
poem,  and  was,  in  fact,  almost  unknown  in  English 
literature.  It  is  a  difficult  meter  to  handle;  and 
for  this  reason  it  required  consummate  skill  on  the 
part  of  the  poet  to  prevent  the  verse  from  degener- 
ating into  commonplace  chant,  or  mere  singsong. 
The  grotesque  Indian  names  are  woven  into  the 
poem  with  a  musical  effect  little  short  of  marvel- 
ous, and  impart  to  the  story  a  decided  epic  quality. 
Had  the  meter  been  other  than  it  is,  it  were  impossi- 
ble to  say  what  the  result  would  have  been.  Long- 
fellow so  blended  the  meter  and  the  substance  into 
a  poem,  at  once  beautiful  and  melodious,  as  to  make 
it  impossible  to  divorce  them  without  marring  the 
artistic  effect.  "Hiawatha,"  therefore,  is  the  form 
the  Indian  legends  assumed  as  the  poem  was  crys- 
tallized in  the  poet's  imagination. 

Not  the  least  important  service  which  Longfellow 
rendered  American  letters  was  his  excellent  and 
scholarly  interpretation  of  the  great  Italian  poet  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  His  translation  of  Dante  proved 
a  touchstone  of  his  own  invention  and  art;  and  the 
result  is  a  metrical  version  both  musical  and  accu- 
rate. To  be  sure,  the  translation  is  not  absolutely 
impeccable,  or  faultily  faultless.  (Nor  would  it 
l>c  true  to  say,  as  an  enthusiastic  German  critic  said 
of  Tieck  and  SchlegePs  version  of  Shakespeare,  that 
the  translation  is  better  than  the  original.)  But 
the  faults  are  such  as  almost  necessarily  follow 


HENRY    NVADSWOKTII    LONGFELLOW  259 

from  a  scrupulous  effort  to  give  a  faithful  and  lit- 
eral rendering.  No  American  man  of  letters  was 
probably  better  fitted  by  taste,  natural  endowment 
and  training  for  the  difficult  and  delicate  work. 
Longfellow,  moreover,  addressed  himself  to  his 
arduous  task  with  the  proper  conception  of  transla- 
tion, viz.,  to  produce  a  "literal  and  lineal  render- 
ing." As  might  have  been  expected,  therefore,  he 
caught  the  spirit  and  thought  of  the  great  Floren- 
tine and  reproduced  them  with  remarkable  grace, 
smoothness  and  accuracy.  The  translation  imme- 
diately took  rank  with  the  best  in  our  tongue. 

Like  Tennyson  and  many  other  poets  who  have 
achieved  distinction  in  the  field  of  lyric  verse,  Long- 
fellow was  ambitious  to  win  laurels  in  the  province 
of  the  drama.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  because 
a  poet  is  successful  as  a  lyricist  that  he  is  also  a 
dramatist,  This  fact  Longfellow  of  course  knew  at 
first  theoretically,  and  he  subsequently  had  it  veri- 
fied in  experience.  Emboldened  by  the  partial 
success  of  his  romance  "Hyperion"  and  by  that  of 
his  first  dramatic  effort,  "The  Spanish  Student,"  he 
set  out  resolutely  to  score  an  unqualified  and  com- 
plete success  in  a  new  and  original  drama.  Accord- 
ingly, he  at  length  gave  to  the  world  his  Trilogy  of 
"Christus,"  which  he  regarded  as  the  high-water 
mark  of  his  dramatic  genius  and  art.  But  his  hopes 
were  doomed  to  disappointment,  for  the  Trilogy  fell 
flat  and  proved  a  signal  failure.  Justice  to  the 
poet,  however,  requires  us  to  modify  this  remark 
and  add  that  a  part  of  the  Trilogy  did  possess  merit. 
Of  this  more  anon. 

The  "Christus"  was  a  very  unequal  production. 
The  first  part,  "The  Divine  Tragedy,"  and  the  third 
part,  "The  New  England  Tragedies,"  are  decidedly 
tame  and  weak  and  little  short  of  inane.  The  sub- 


260  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

jects  selected  may  be  such  as  to  offer  great  possibili- 
ties to  a  dramatist  of  real  genius,  but  in  the  hands 
of  Longfellow  the  treatment  is  feeble  and  alto- 
gether inadequate.  The  work  may  have  the  proper 
personages  and  situations  and  the  form  of  a  play, 
but  it  lacks  the  action,  fire  and  passion.  The 
author  has  evidently  overestimated  his  power  and 
chosen  a  theme  beyond  his  capacity  and  range. 

Of  the  second  part  of  the  Trilogy,  however,  a 
favorable  word  may  be  spoken.  This  part,  which, 
by  the  way,  was  published  a  score  of  years  before 
the  "Divine  Tragedy,"  was  entitled  the  "Golden 
Legend"  and  is  the  oasis  in  the  desert.  It  is  the 
sole  redeeming  part  of  the  Trilogy.  The  "Golden 
Legend"  is  a  fascinating  romance  cast  in  dramatic 
form,  and,  according  to  some  critics,  it  reflects  the 
author's  versatile  genius  at  its  best.  John  Kuskin 
wrote  of  it  at  the  time  of  its  production :  "Longfel- 
low, in  his  'Golden  Legend/  has  entered  more  closely 
into  the  temper  of  the  monk,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
than  ever  yet  theological  writer  or  historian,  though 
they  may  have  given  their  life's  labor  to  the  analy- 
sis." But  even  the  "Golden  Legend,"  brilliant  as 
>'i  is  in  parts,  was  not  sufficient  to  redeem  from  a 
speedy  oblivion  the  first  and  third  parts  of  "Chris- 
tus,"  and  so  the  Trilogy  remains  to-day  unread — a 
striking  monument  of  the  poet's  misdirected  ambi- 
tion. 

The  fact  is,  Longfellow  lacked  dramatic  skill ;  he 
TJIS  not,  and  never  could  become,  a  playwright. 
This  was  one  of  his  limitations,  and  a  limitation 
which  lie  was  very  slow  to  recognize.  Indeed,  he 
never  fully  realized  it,  as  his  posthumous  drama 
"Mirheal  Angelo"  attests.  If  the  energy  and  effort 
which  he  expended  upon  the  drama  had  been  given 
to  lyric  poetry,  Longfellow  would  have  won  even 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW  261 

greater  triumphs  than  those  he  did  achieve  and 
would  have  left  behind  him  a  more  enduring  name. 

If  Longfellow  had  consulted  his  reputation  as  a 
poet,  ho  would  probably  have  withheld  from  publi- 
cation his  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn."  These  he  pub- 
lished in  instalments  extending  through  a  decade, 
but  they  did  not  enchance  his  fame.  They  possess 
rather  meagre  literary  merit.  The  poems  which 
compose  the  collection  are  too  diffuse  and  rambling, 
and  the  work  lacks  unity.  They  are  a  series  of 
short  stories  gleaned  from  various  foreign  litera- 
tures and  are  strung  together  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.  There  seems, 
too,  to  be  no  obvious  principle  of  classification.  To 
be  sure,  there  are  some  fine  passages  here  and  there, 
but  the  tales,  as  a  whole,  make  upon  the  reader  the 
wearisome  impression  of  being  long-drawn-out  and 
prolix.  The  author  was  presumably  led  into  this 
error  by  his  extraordinary  lyrical  facility  and  by 
his  superior  qualities  as  a  raconteur.  He  was 
therefore  handicapped  by  the  defects  of  his  qualities. 

It  has  been  said  that  Longfellow  was  the  poet  of 
the  people,  and  the  remark  is  true.  In  England  he 
is  regarded  as  the  poet  of  the  middle  classes^  Now, 
this  was  also  the  class  for  whom  Tennyson  wrote. 
It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  these  two  poets  pos- 
sessed much  in  common.  But  we  need  not  dwell 
upon  this  point.  Neither  Longfellow  nor  Tenny- 
son was  a  "poet  of  passion  or  pain."  This  phrase, 
however,  is  a  more  apt  characterization  of  the  great 
English  poet  than  of  the  gifted  American  singer. 
Longfellow  never  touched  any  very  deep  chord 
either  of  joy  or  of  sorrow.  His  register  did  not  in- 
clude either  of  these  extremes.  He  pursued  the 
even  tenor  of  his  song,  never  rising  to  the  height 
of  ineffable  joy,  on  the  one  hand,  nor  descending  to 


262  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  depth  of  unutterable  anguish,  on  the  other. 
Still,  he  was  not  "an  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day." 
Being  neither  rich  nor  poor,  he  occupied  a  fortunate 
intermediate  station  in  life;  and  following  his  own 
exhortation,  he  wrote  out  of  his  own  heart  and  ex- 
perience. 

Longfellow  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  nature. 
Probably  nature  would  have  appealed  to  him  with 
something  of  the  power  and  force  with  which  she 
appealed  to  Wordsworth,  if  his  lot  had  been  cast 
among  other  surroundings.  A  college  professor 
has  a  great  deal  of  drudgery  connected  with  his 
arduous  duties,  and  the  class-room  does  not  afford 
the  most  glorious  aspects  of  nature.  But  Longfel- 
low's love  of  nature  was  by  no  means  an  absorbing, 
passionate  love.  It  has  not  that  May-morning 
freshness  about  it,  such  as  we  find  in  the  father  of 
English  poesy  and  in  those  who  have  drawn  their 
inspiration  from  the  same  source  as  he.  Like  his 
contemporary  Lowell,  Longfellow  could  never  quite 
forget  his  books ;  but  unlike  Lowell,  Longfellow  did 
not  allow  his  learning  to  obtrude  itself  unduly,  and 
thus  render  his  art  over-literary.  A  good  illustra- 
tion o  1^  what  is  meant  is  found  in  the  poet's  com- 
memoration ode,  "Morituri  Salutamus,"  written  for 
the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  graduating  class.  As 
Mr.  Stedman  has  pointed  out  in  his  appreciative1 
sketch  of  Longfellow  in  his  "Poets  of  America,"  this 
ode  contains  more  than  twenty  learned  references 
within  the  brief  compass  of  three  hundred  lines,  and 
yet  the  allusions  are  so  deftly  wrought  into  the 
poem  that  the  effect  is  simple,  natural  and  artless. 
Had  Lowell  essayed  to  do  the  same  thing,  he  would 
{ilmost.  inevitably  have  produced  the  impression  of 
airing  his  erudition  and  parading  his  art. 


HENRY    WADSWORTII    LONGFELLOW  263 

Longfellow  learned  the  art,  as  happy  as  it  is  rare, 
of  veiling  his  learning,  and  he  knew  the  value  of 
simplicity  and  artlessness.  Above  all  things  he 
strove  to  be  natural.  Affectation  and  display  were 
foreign  to  his  nature.  He  never  posed  for  effect. 
His  motto  in  art  as  in  life  was,  Esse  quam  videri 
mallm.  His  poetry  was  but  the  natural  expression 
of  his  sterling  character,  which  despised  sham  and 
pretense  in  whatever  form  masquerading,  and  was 
as  sincere  and  chaste  as  his  own  pure  soul. 

Longfellow's  genius  was  lyrical.  His  inspiration 
he  sought  more  often  in  the  heart  than  in  the  head. 
Tenderness,  sympathy  and  love,  combined  with 
melody  and  charm,  are  the  distinctive  qualities  of 
his  verse.  He  aimed  to  look,  not  upon  the  dark, 
threatening  exterior  of  the  cloud,  but  upon  its 
bright  silver  lining.  In  a  word,  he  was  an  optimist, 
and  looked  out  upon  life  through  roseate  glasses. 
There  was  nothing  morbid  about  him,  as  there  was, 
for  instance,  about  Poe.  He  is  thoroughly  sane  and 
wholesome  as  well  as  chaste  and  pure.  He  put  him- 
self into  his  work  and  through  his  verse  gave  him- 
self to  the  world.  Guileless,  pure  and  true,  he  would 
no  sooner  have  written  a  line  which  he  felt  to  be  un- 
true than  he  would  have  told  a  glaring  falsehood. 
Of  the  sacredness  and  importance  of  the  office  of 
the  poet  no  man  ever  entertained  a  more  exalted 
opinion.  His  poetry  is  the  flower  and  fruit  of  his 
noble  life. 


LONGFELLOW 
MORITURI  SALUTAMUS 

"O  CAESAR,  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you !"  was  the  gladiators'  cry 
In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 
With  death  and  with  the  Eoman  populace. 

O  ye  familiar  scenes, — ye  groves  of  pine, 
That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer  mine, — 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows  green 
To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen, — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished, — we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you ;  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters  down 
His  sovereign  splendor  upon  grove  and  town. 
Ye  do  not  answer  us!  ye  do  not  hear ! 
We  are  forgotten ;  and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 
Whether  we  come  or  go,  or  whence  or  where. 
What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, 
Ye  heed  not ;  we  are  only  as  the  blast, 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 

Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's  maze; 

They  answer  us — alas!  what  have  I  said? 

What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voiceless  dead? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply? 

What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless  lie? 

They  are  no  longer  here ;  they  all  are  gone 

Into  the  land  of  shadows, — all  save  one. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW  265 

Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  fj\i tli ful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 

His  dreadful  journey  to  the  realms  of  shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 

And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth : 

"Oh,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 

Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 

Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death  surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized ; 

How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 

All  my  life  long  my  language  shall  declare." 

To-day  we  make  the  poet's  words-  our  own, 

And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone; 

Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 

But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 

Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 

Not  wrapped  in  gloom,  but  robed  in  sunshine  here. 


CHAPTEK  XI 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Few  years  in  the  history  of  English  and  Ameri- 
can literature  have  been  more  signalized  by  the 
birth  of  great  men  than  the  year  1809.  Nature  dis- 
tributed her  gifts  with  a  lavish  hand  to  her  babes 
of  that  year,  for  among  those  babes  were  Gladstone, 
Lincoln,  Darwin,  Tennyson,  and  Poe,  to  mention 
only  a  few,  the  bare  recital  of  whose  names  quickens 
the  pulse  and  kindles  the  imagination.  There  was 
another  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  during 
that  annus  miralnlis,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  who 
made  for  himself  a  name  and,  when  he  died  in  1894, 
left  behind  him  a  record  destined  to  stimulate  and 
inspire  our  American  youth  for  years  to  come.  He 
was  not  a  powerful  factor,  like  Gladstone  or  Lin- 
coln in  the  councils  of  State,  in  shaping  the  desti- 
nies of  nations;  nor  was  he,  like  Darwin,  a  brilliant 
investigator  of  nature,  devoting  himself  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  science  with  an  energy  and  zeal  al- 
most unparalleled  in  the  world's  history.  Yet  he 
was  inspired  by  a  spirit  somewhat  akin  to  that 
which  fired  Darwin's  soul  and  started  him  on  the 
line  of  his  daring  researches  into  the  secrets  of  na- 
ture. For  he  devoted  himself  to  the  noble  profes- 
sion of  medicine,  and  lent  his  healing  art  to  the  re- 
lief of  suffering  humanity,  and  though  he  made  no 
brilliant  discoveries,  he  yet  strove  to  advance  the 
bounds  of  human  knowledge  and  to  contribute  to 
man's  comfort  and  welfare.  But  it  is  not  this 
phase  of  Holmes'  life  that  we  propose  to  consider. 


OLIYKU  \VI:MM:LL  IIOLMKS  267 

Our  object  here  is  to  discuss  Holmes  as  a  man  of 
letters,  in  which  capacity  he  achieved  as  great  dis- 
l  iiici  ion  as  lie  did  as  a  follower  of  .Ksenlapius. 

Young  Holmes  was  intended  by  his  father,  him- 
self a  rongregiitional  clergyman,  for  the  ministry, 
but  nature  decreed  otherwise.  "I  might  have  been 
a  minister  myself,  for  aught  I  know,"  wrote  Holmes 
in  later  life,  "if  a  certain  clergyman  had  not  looked 
and  talked  so  like  an  undertaker."  Again,  speak- 
ing in  a  satiric  vein  of  the  impressions  the  ministers 
visiting  his  father's  house  made  upon  his  youthful 
mind,  he  says : 

"But  now  and  then  would  come  along  a  clerical 
visitor  with  a  sad  face  and  a  wailing  voice,  which 
sounded  exactly  as  if  somebody  must  be  lying  dead 
upstairs,  who  took  no  interest  in  us  children  except 
a  painful  one  as  being  in  a  bad  way,  with  our 
cheery  looks,  and  did  more  to  unchristianize  us  with 
his  woe-begone  ways  than  all  his  sermons  were 
likely  to  accomplish  in  the  other  direction." 

Thus  the  boy  was  repelled  rather  than  attracted 
to  the  ministry  by  a  well-meaning  clergyman,  and 
did  not  yield  to  his  father's  wishes.  Upon  his 
graduation  from  Harvard,  in  1829,  Holmes  felt 
some  inclination  to  the  law,  but  he  pursued  it  only 
a  short  time  when  he  discovered  that  he  had  not 
yet  "found  himself,"  and  that  law  was  not  to  his 
taste.  He  then  addressed  himself  to  medicine, 
which  he  felt  to  be  his  calling.  After  the  comple- 
tion of  his  medical  course,  which  he  pursued  mainly 
in  Paris,  he  returned  to  his  native  State  of  Massa- 
chusetts and  began  the  practice  of  his  profession. 
In  1838  he  was  called  to  a  professorship  of  anatomy 
in  Dartmouth  College,  and  a  few  years  afterwards 
he  was  called  thence  to  Harvard,  his  alma  mater. 
Here  he  remained  and  continued  to  lecture  till  his 


268  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

resignation  of  his  professorship  in  1882.  The  even- 
ing of  life  he  devoted  exclusively  to  his  literary 
pursuits. 

The  Little  Man  of  Boston,  as  Dr.  Holmes  was 
familiarly  called,  enjoyed  an  enviable  reputation 
as  a  raconteur  and  wit  and  became  a  familiar  figure 
upon  the  lyceum  platform.  In  1884,  he  visited  Eu- 
rope— fifty  years  or  more  after  his  first  prolonged 
visit  when  a  student — and  wras  cordially  received 
wherever  he  went,  for  his  writings  had  already  made 
his  name  famous,  and  the  literati  vied  with  each 
other  in  doing  him  homage.  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge conferred  upon  him  their  highest  honors. 
Upon  his  return  to  America  he  described  his  trip 
in  an  entertaining  volume  of  travels,  "Our  Hun- 
dred Days  in  Europe."  Holmes  then  settled  down 
in  Beacon  Street  to  spend  a  peaceful  and  happy  old 
age,  accompanied  with  "honor,  love,  obedience  and 
troops  of  friends." 

After  this  brief  biographical  sketch  it  is  in  order 
to  review  Holmes's  writings,  prose  and  poetry,  and 
to  determine  his  place,  as  best  we  may,  among 
American  men  of  letters.  For  convenience  of  treat- 
ment his  prose  works  will  be  considered  first  and 
afterwards  his  poetry. 


Holmes  is,  no  doubt,  quite  as  favorably  known 
by  his  prose  as  by  his  poetry.  He  is  not  of  the  num- 
ber of  authors  who  excelled  in  only  one  of  the  great 
departments  of  literature.  As  in  case  of  his  life- 
long friend,  James  Russell  Lowell,  it  is  difficult  to 
affirm  whether  Holmes  advanced  his  reputation  as 
an  author  more  by  his  prose  or  by  his  poetry.  Both 
his  prose  and  verse  exhibit  very  much  the  same 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMKS  269 

qualities  of  wit,  humor,  piquancy,  and  good  taste. 
Perhaps,  however,  his  genial  originality  is  the  most 
distinctive  characteristic  of  his  work.  It  shines 
forth  from  every  page  that  he  wrote,  just  as  it  is 
said  to  have  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  man  himself. 

Holmes  showed  a  decided  penchant  for  literal  u re 
early  in  life.  Even  during  his  college  days  he  began 
to  write.  But  most  of  his  early  work  was  verse — 
metrical  essays,  of  light  banter,  with  an  occasional 
poem  in  a  sober,  serious  vein.  He  was  fast  ap- 
proaching the  meridian  of  life  before  he  seems  to 
have  developed  any  special  aptitude  for  prose  com- 
position. At  any  rate,  if  he  possessed  it  before,  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  appreciated  it. 

When  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was  projected  in 
1857,  James  Russell  Lowell  was  asked  to  become  the 
editor.  This  he  reluctantly  consented  to  do,  but 
only  on  condition  that  Holmes  should  become  a 
regular  contributor  and  be  "the  first  contributor  to 
be  engaged.''  Referring  to  this  honor  that  Lowell 
paid  him,  Holmes  afterwards  said : 

"I,  who  felt  myself  outside  the  charmed  circle 
drawn  around  the  scholars  and  poets  of  Cambridge 
and  Concord,  having  given  myself  to  other  studies 
and  duties,  wondered  somewhat  when  Mr.  Lowell 
insisted  upon  my  becoming  a  contributor.  I  looked 
at  the  old  portfolio  and  said  to  myself,  'Too  late! 
too  late!  This  tarnished  gold  will  never  brighten, 
these  battered  covers  will  stand  no  wear  and  tear; 
close  them  and  leave  them  to  the  spider  and  the 
bookworm.' ' 

With  this  famous  magazine,  which  was  indebted 
for  its  name  to  a  suggestion  of  our  author,  a  new 
star  swam  into  the  ken  of  the  American  reading 
public.  That  star  was  Holmes,  who,  as  Howells 


270  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

said,  not  only  named,  but  made  The  Atlantic  the 
foremost  literary  magazine  in  America.  It  was  the 
publication,  in  that  journal  of  those  inimitable 
papers,  the  "Breakfast  Table"  series,  that  gave  the 
monthly  caste  and  established  its  reputation. 

The  first  of  this  well-known  series  to  appear  in  the 
columns  of  The  Atlantic  was  "The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table."  But  this  was  not  the  author's 
maiden  effort.  More  than  a  score  of  years  before 
he  had  dashed  off  two  papers  in  a  similar  vein, 
which  he  had  published  under  the  same  nom  de 
plume  in  the  short-lived  New  England  Magazine. 
In  the  "Autocrat's  Autobiography,"  Holmes  says  of 
these  two  early  essays  that  "the  recollection  of  the 
crude  products  of  his  uncombed  literary  boyhood 
suggested  the  thought  that  it  would  be  a  curious 
experiment  to  shake  the  same  bough  again,  and  see 
if  the  ripe  fruit  were  better  or  worse  than  the  early 
windfalls."  But  the  Avorld,  if  it  had  tasted  his 
early  windfalls,  had  forgotten  them;  and  so  the 
"Autocrat"  series  appeared  with  all  the  freshness 
and  attendant  interest  of  the  discovery  by  the  pub- 
lic of  a  new  author. 

It  is  related  that  when  the  management  of  the 
magazine  announced  the  title  of  the  series  as  "a 
drawing  card,"  the  proprietor  of  a  well-known  re- 
ligious weekly  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  a 
cook  book,  and  that  a  Frenchman,  perplexed  at  the 
odd  title,  exclaimed,  "L'  Autocrate  a  la  table  du 
dejeuner,  titre  bizarre!"  The  series  was  eagerly 
expected  and  read  far  and  wide  when  it  appeared, 
and  it  elicited  no  little  comment,  both  favorable  and 
unfavorable.  Sonic  critics,  enraged  a  I  (he  daring 
views  set  forth,  applied  uncomplimentary,  not  to 
say  sulphurous,  epithets  to  the  Autocrat.  Some  in 
mild  protest  called  him  undignified  and  "an  inordi- 


OLIVKK    WKNDELL   HOLM  KS  271 

nate  egotist";  and  one  even  suggested  that  the 
poems  with  which  tin*  essays  close  "showed  as  ill 
as  diamonds  among  the  spangles  of  the  court  fool." 
The  religious  press  in  general  took  umbrage  at  the 
universalist  opinions  which  the  book  reflected,  and 
voided  its  rheum  upon  the  author.  It  is  prob- 
ably a  safe  statement  that  no  book  published  in 
those  times  created  a  greater  sensation  in  the 
American  literary  world. 

"The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table"  was  really 
a  unique  book  and  an  entirely  new  departure. 
Nothing  quite  like  it,  or  indeed  approaching  it,  had 
ever  before  appeared  in  this  country.  It  is  usually 
regarded  as  the  best  of  Holmes's  prose  works,  and 
is  slightly  above  the  level  of  the  subsequent  volumes 
of  the  series.  But  the  entire  "Breakfast  Table" 
series  is  excellent.  It  is  a  New  England  product, 
and  smacks  of  the  soil.  Like  Hawthorne's  Puritan 
romances,  the  "Breakfast  Table"  books  could  not 
have  been  written  by  any  other  than  one  born  and 
bred  in  New  England.  (Both  authors  had  a  good 
deal  of  the  Puritan  in  them,  Hawthorne  more  than 
Holmes.)  The  characters  of  the  books  are  dis- 
tinctively local  and  correspondingly  provincial; 
they  were  drawn  from  New  England  models.  Their 
language,  their  way  of  thinking,  their  general  bear- 
ing, and  the  local  color  withal,  conspire  beyond 
question  to  betray  their  origin,  and  to  stamp  them 
peculiarly  New  England  creations. 

It  is  to  be  observed  by  way  of  parenthesis  that 
Holmes  rendered  American  literature  a  vast  service 
in  thus  presenting  and  preserving  for  all  time  these 
various  types  of  New  England  character;  and  for 
this  reason  alone  his  work  merits  high  praise.  For 
the  "Breakfast  Table"  series  is,  in  its  way,  as  true 
and  admirable  a  portrayal  of  New  England  charac- 


272  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ter  as  Lowell's  equally  famous  "Biglow  Papers."  It 
is  true  that  Lowell's  creation  is  more  valuable  in 
preserving  the  language,  since  in  this  respect  it  is  a 
veritable  treasure-trove  for  the  student  of  the  Yan- 
kee dialect.  But  barring  this  difference,  the  two 
works  are  almost  equally  valuable  as  exhibiting  a 
faithful  and  vivid  portrayal  of  fast-disappearing 
types  of  New  England  character.  That  character 
and  that  country  were  dear  to  the  heart  of  Holmes ; 
and  old  Boston,  Avith  all  its  historic  associations  and 
memories,  was  dear  to  his  heart  above  all  the  other 
spots  in  his  beloved  Massachusetts.  Indeed,  few 
men  have  loved  their  native  place  more  passionately 
than  did  he.  No  Roman  could  have  loved  Kome 
with  more  ardor,  and  no  ancient  Hebrew  the  Holy 
City  with  more  devotion,  than  Holmes  loved  Bos- 
ton. "I  would  not,"  exclaims  he  in  an  impassioned 
outburst  of  patriotism,  when  speaking  of  his  native 
city,  "I  would  not  take  all  the  glory  of  all  the  great- 
est cities  in  the  world  for  my  birthright  in  the  soil 
of  little  Boston!"  It  is  true  that  Boston  repre- 
sented the  best  in  New  England  life  and  character ; 
and  Holmes,  being  of  the  people  of  that  locality  and 
a  New  Englander  to  the  core,  regarded  himself  as  an 
exponent  of  this  peculiar  type  of  American  civili- 
zation, and  conceived  it  to  be  his  special  mission  to 
give  expression  to  it  for  the  benefit  of  our  literature. 
That  he  was  truly  representative  of  New  England 
cannot  be  questioned.  Indeed,  he  was  a  more  faith- 
ful exponent  of  the  place  and  the  people  than  was 
Lowell,  or  perhaps  even  Hawthorne;  for  these  both 
resided  abroad  long  enough  to  rub  off  considerable 
of  their  provincialism,  and  in  their  diplomatic 
capacities  and  contact  with  men  of  various  nation- 
alities they  took  on  something  of  a  cosmopolitan 
veneer  and  finish;  but  Holmes  remained  New  Eng- 
land till  his  death. 


OL1YKK    \VKNDELL    IIOLMKS  273 

"The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table"  was  fol- 
lowed by  "The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table," 
which,  like  its  predecessor,  also  first  appeared  as  a 
serial  in  The  Atlantic.  This  book  is  of  course,  very 
rnuch  in  the  same  manner  as  "The  Autocrat," 
though  perhaps  not  quite  up  to  the  level  of  the  lat- 
t<T.  After  its  publication  the  author  refrained  for 
more  than  a  decade  from  writing  any  more  of  those 
charming  essays.  During  this  period,  when  our 
country  was  in  the  throes  of  civil  war,  he  turned  his 
attention  to  fiction,  and  wrote  two  novels.  After 
the  fire  and  smoke  of  civil  strife  had  passed  away, 
Holmes  resumed  his  essays  and  produced  the  third 
volume  of  his  series,  entitled  "The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast  Table,"  which  appeared  in  1872.  This 
book  is  similar,  in  plan  and  scope,  to  those  that  pre- 
ceded it,  but  in  the  conversation  of  the  characters 
it  plainly  reflects  some  of  the  many  changes  which 
took  place  during  that  momentous  period  in  our 
country's  history.  "The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast 
Table"  was  generally  regarded  as  the  last  volume  of 
the  series.  But  in  1891,  well-nigh  twenty  years 
after,  another  volume,  somewhat  different  in  char- 
acter, though  bearing  a  general  family  resem- 
blance, appeared.  This  youngest  child  of  his  crea- 
tive genius  the  author,  now  in  the  evening  of  life, 
very  appropriately  christened  "Over  the  Teacups." 

Holmes  lived  to  see  his  early  critics  undergo  a 
change  of  heart  with  reference  to  the  merits  of  his 
"Breakfast  Table"  series.  "The  Autocrat"  had  di- 
vided the  reading  public  into  two  camps ;  "Over  the 
Teacups"  found  the  hostile  camp  deserted,  and  all 
the  quondam  foes  now  friends.  The  author's  early 
views  and  convictions  were,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
in  advance  of  the  times,  but  the  world  soon  came  to 
adopt,  in  large  measure,  his  way  of  thinking. 
"Over  the  Teacups,"  his  last  hostage  to  fortune,  was 


274  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

therefore  kindly  received ;  and  since  the  author  had 
rounded  out  the  scriptural  limit  of  threescore  years 
and  ten,  the  book  was  looked  upon  as  "sad  autumn's 
last  chrysanthemum."  But  there  is  no  mark  of 
senility  to  be  found  in  the  book.  It  holds  the  read- 
er's attention  as  closely  as  the  first  volume  of  the 
series,  published  over  thirty  years  before.  It  is 
generally  conceded,  however,  that  "The  Autocrat" 
is  the  best  of  the  series.  But  all  the  volumes  are 
interesting  and  entertaining;  yea  more,  they  are 
really  fascinating.  There  is  not  a  dull,  prosaic  page 
in  any  of  them,  and  some  of  the  papers  are  brilliant. 
There  is  an  atmosphere  of  freshness  and  piquancy 
pervading  every  volume,  as  one  might  naturally  ex- 
pect in  a  kind  of  writing  entirely  unique  and  origi- 
nal as  the  "Breakfast  Table"  series  was.  Holmes 
scored  a  phenomenal  success  in  this  new  departure, 
and  upon  it  established  his  reputation  as  a  writer 
of  a  racy  and  charming  English  prose  style.  As  a 
specimen  of  graceful,  facile  English  the  papers  of 
Ihe  "IJreakfast  Table"  series  are  unexcelled  in 
American  literature,  and  surpassed  only  by  Addi- 
son's  and  Lamb's  inimitable  essays  in  English  liter- 
ature. 

Like  most  prose  writers,  Holmes,  when  he  learned 
that  he  held  the  attention  of  the  public,  decided  to 
try  his  hand  at  the  alluring  art  of  novel-writing. 
But  this  fact  will  elicit  little  surprise  in  his  case  if 
we  reflect  that  in  "The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast 
Table"  \vere  contained  the  elements  of  a  good  story. 
Accordingly,  in  1861,  he  gave  the  world  his  first 
novel,  "The  Professor's  Story,"  which  he  subse- 
quently christened  "Elsie  Venner,"  the  name  by 
which  the  novel  is  generally  kno\vn.  The  novel  was 
greeted  with  a  storm  of  criticism  on  all  sides,  but 
this  adverse  criticism  caused  the  book  to  be  all  the 
more  widely  read.  Though  thus  criticised,  it  may 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES  275 

be  called  a  popular  novel,  and  is  even  now  occasion- 
ally read.  Still,  if  one  may  make  such  a  distinction, 
the  book  was  not  a  success,  at  any  rate  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view.  Its  conception  was,  upon  the 
whole,  unhappy. 

"FJxir  \YnncT"  is  of  that  class  of  fiction  known 
as  the  "purpose  novel."  This  fact  of  itself  heavily 
discounts  it  with  many  readers.  Of  the  novel  with 
a  purpose  we  may  distinguish  at  least  two  classes. 
The  first  class  includes  those  novels  that  are  de- 
signed by  their  authors  to  correct  certain  social 
abuses,  or  to  bring  about  certain  reforms.  Of  this 
class  are  Dickens's  "Bleak  House"  and  "Little  Dor- 
rit,"  and  Sir  Walter  Beasant's  best-known  novel, 
"All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,"  the  agitation 
engendered  by  which  resulted  in  the  establishment 
of  that  philanthropic  institution,  the  People's 
Palace,  in  London.  The  second  class  includes  those 
novels  which  are  written  to  set  forth  some  pet 
theory  of  the  novelist,  and  may  be  called  psycholog- 
ical novels.  "Elsie  Venner"  belongs  to  this  class. 
Its  purpose  is  theoretical,  and  involves  a  psycho- 
logical problem.  For  this  reason  it  falls  legiti- 
mately in  the  province  of  science,  rather  than  of  art. 

The  problem  of  "Elsie  Venner"  is  twofold.  First, 
supposing  a  prospective  mother  to  be  bitten  by  a 
rattlesnake,  can  the  venom  infused  into  the  mother 
be  so  communicated  to  the  unborn  babe  as  to  affect 
its  nature  and  influence  its  disposition?  Secondly, 
granted  that  this  theory  of  prenatal  poisoning  be 
true,  to  what  extent  is  such  a  child  morally  respon- 
sible? This  is  the  theory  underlying  "Elsie  Ven- 
ner/' of  which  the  story  is  the  outgrowth.  It  will 
be  seen  that  the  conception  itself  is  not  attractive; 
on  the  contrary,  the  thought  is  positively  repellent. 
The  novel,  therefore,  in  its  very  essence,  creates  a 
prejudice  in  the  reader's  mind,  for  the  normally 


276  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

constituted  man  or  woman  has  an  aversion  to 
snakes,  and  does  not  take  much  interest  in  any  such 
unnatural  hybrid  creature  as  Holmes  made  the 
heroine  of  his  story. 

"Elsie  Venner"  has  come  to  be  recognized  as  one 
of  the  chief  snake  stories  in  English  literature. 
From  what  source  the  author  got  the  suggestion  is 
not  clear.  It  is  possible  that  the  biblical  account  of 
Eve's  encounter  with  the  serpent  may  have  sug- 
gested the  idea  to  him.  We  are  told  that  Holmes,  in 
order  to  make  the  effect  more  vivid  and  realistic, 
made  a  special  study  of  serpents,  and  kept  a  rattle- 
snake in  a  cage,  closely  observing  its  every  habit  and 
movement.  These  he  reproduced  in  Elsie  Venner, 
with  all  the  accuracy  and  skill  at  his  command, 
under  the  limitations  of  her  hybrid  nature.  The 
result  is  that  Elsie  Yenner  is  a  girl  whose  nature  is 
tainted  by  the  trail  of  the  serpent — a  character  to 
many  readers  uninviting,  not  to  say  repulsive.  Yet 
such  was  the  popularity  of  the  story  that  shortly 
after  its  appearance  an  attempt  was  made  to  dra- 
matize it.  As  a  play  it  proved  a  signal  failure.  This 
is  but  what  might  have  been  expected,  for  it  is  an 
extremely  difficult  task  to  dramatize  with  good 
effect  a  psychological  story.  The  psychology  is 
likely  to  volatilize  in  the  process,  and  the  play  to 
degenerate  into  a  mere  burlesque.  In  the  novel, 
Elsie  Venner,  with  her  small,  beady,  snake-like  eyes 
and  her  cold,  unnatural  touch,  may  cast  an  illusion 
over  the  reader's  imagination;  but  the  illusion  is 
dispelled  directly  the  attempt  is  made  to  put  her 
upon  the  stage.  Indeed,  the  illusion  is  not  always 
perfect  even  in  the  novel,  and  you  feel  at  times  that 
the  author  tninxcomls  the  limit  of  art  and  comes 
perilously  near  to  the  farcical. 

Hut  1 1 oli lies  never  intended  this  novel  for  a  farce. 
Nor  did  he  conceive  it  in  any  frivolous  spirit.    Far 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES  277 

from  it.  As  the  author  wrote  a  friend  of  his,  the 
story  was  conceived  in  the  fear  of  God  and  the  love 
of  man.  The  problem  at  the  bottom  of  the  novel  in 
Ilolmes's  mind  was  the  extent  of  moral  responsibil- 
ity in  a  creature  like  Elsie  Venner.  In  connection 
with  this  thought  he  suggests  the  cognate  thought 
as  to  how  far  are  children,  born  of  wicked,  degraded 
parents  and  reared  amid  squalid,  immoral  associa- 
tions, morally  responsible  for  their  conduct.  This 
is  a  theological  question;  and  after  all  it  was  the- 
ology, so  his  biographer  tells  us,  that  engaged 
Holmes's  attention  more  profoundly  and  more  con- 
stantly than  anything  else.  Medicine  he  loved  and 
literature  he  loved,  but  he  loved  theology  above  all. 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  the  clergy  were  disposed  to  re- 
gard him  as  an  infidel.  He  attacked  the  religion  of 
certain  clergymen,  not  because  he  did  not  believe  in 
the  Saviour,  but  because  he  did  not  believe  in  the  re- 
ligion that  they  preached.  He  felt  that  their  relig- 
ion had  become  incrusted  with  human  errors  and 
superstitions,  and  these  he  would  tear  away  in  order 
that  he  might  get  nearer  to  the  essentials  of  Chris- 
tianity— to  its  heart.  He  believed  in  pruning  off 
all  human  excrescences  which  had  grown  up  around 
our  religion,  and  in  throwing  them  away  as  being 
false,  and  therefore  worthless.  This  part  of  religion 
he  rejected  as  spurious,  but  the  divine  part  he  clung 
to  tenaciously.  But  enough  of  this  phase  of  the  dis- 
cussion of  our  author's  novel. 

"Elsie  Venner,"  as  has  been  said,  was  not  a  suc- 
cess from  the  point  of  view  of  art.  True,  it  abounds 
in  brilliant  passages  here  and  there,  and  the  local 
color  is  admirable  and  the  description  fine.  But  this 
is  not  enough  to  make  a  successful  novel.  There 
must  be  clear-cut  characterization  and  a  strong  plot. 
Now,  "Elsie  Venner"  is  not  above  criticism  on  either 
of  these  scores.  The  characters  are  not  real  enough ; 


278  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

they  do  not  live  and  move  as  men  and  women  of 
flesh  and  blood.  But  it  is  only  the  great  novelists 
that  possess  this  power  of  creation.  Again,  the  plot 
is  weak,  and  the  incidents  are  not  sufficiently  strik- 
ing. This  is  a  notably  weak  spot  in  Holmes's  equip- 
ment as  a  novelist.  He  is  tolerably  good  at  portray- 
ing characters  and  reproducing  the  local  color,  in 
creating  an  atmosphere  and  giving  the  proper  set- 
ting to  a  story,  but  in  the  construction  and  working 
out  of  the  plot  he  is  lamentably  weak. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  we  have  dwelt  quite 
at  length  upon  this  first  novel  of  our  author.  We 
have  done  so  for  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  it 
is  considered  Holmes's  best-known  and  strongest 
story ;  in  the  second  place,  it  is  representative  of  his 
method  and  art  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  As  it  is  not 
our  purpose  to  speak  in  detail  of  his  other  novels, 
the  detailed  consideration  of  "Elsie  Venner," 
already  given,  may  serve  to  indicate  to  the  reader 
Holnies's  excellences  and  limitations  as  a  novelist. 

Holrnes's  second  novel,  which  appeared  in  1868, 
was  entitled  "The  Guardian  Angel."  It  is  in  some 
respects  a  stronger  story  than  the  author's  first  ad- 
venture, and  shows  an  improvement  over  it,  con- 
sidered as  a  work  of  art.  It  is  probably  more 
brilliant,  and,  as  a  critic  has  said,  fairly  sparkles 
"with  gems  of  wisdom,  wit,  and  humor."  It  is  like 
its  predecessor  in  being  a  novel  with  a  purpose,  but 
it  is  less  fantastic,  not  so  improbable  in  conception 
and  more  inviting  in  fact.  Holmes's  third  and  last 
novel  was  "A  Mortal  Antipathy,"  produced  during 
the  declining  years  of  his  life  and  published  in  1885. 
It  is  somewhat  in  the  same  vein  as  his  other  two 
works  of  fiction,  but  far  inferior  in  detail  and  execu- 
tion. If  the  author  had  consulted  his  literary  repu- 
lalioii,  lie  \vould  not  have  published  this  feeble 
story.  As  a  work  of  lid  ion,  it  falls  but  little  short 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES  279 

of  a  failure.  Even  Holmes  himself  seemed  to  realize 
this,  after  the  publication  of  the  book,  and  perhaps 
would  fain  have  recalled  il.  Kill  as  Horace  cen- 
turies ago  said,  \c*<-it  vox  rnissa  reverti.  Of 
Holmes\s  two  memoirs,  "Emerson"  and  "Motley,"  it 
is  not  worth  while  to  speak,  except  to  remark  that 
they  were  both  well  done  and  contain  some  of  the 
author's  terse,  epigrammatic,  and  pungent  sen- 
tences. 

ii 

It  is  time  now  to  speak  of  Holmes's  poetry.  It  is 
a  question  whether  Holmes's  prose  or  poetry  will 
contribute  more  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  his 
name.  However  that  may  be,  no  just  estimate  of 
his  place  in  American  letters  can  be  formed  without 
taking  into  consideration  his  verse  as  well  as  his 
prose,  for  the  two  cannot  be  divorced.  They  were 
born  together.  It  is  of  course  well  known  that  it 
was  the  author's  practice  to  insert  his  poetic  effu- 
sions in  the  "Breakfast  Table"  chat,  and  especially 
to  close  his  papers  with  a  song  or  an  ode.  Hence 
many  of  his  best  poems  appeared  first  in  this  series ; 
and,  indeed,  "The  Autocrat"  contains  the  finest 
poetic  work  "he  ever  did.  His  prose  and  verse  are 
therefore  intimately  associated  in  the  popular  mind, 
and  have  both  united  to  establish  his  reputation  as 
an  author. 

Holmes  seems  to  have  developed  very  early  a 
facility  for  verse-making.  While  we  are  not  told 
that  he  lisped  in  numbers,  still  he  possessed  a 
natural  fondness,  an  instinct,  for  song,  and  had  a 
sensitive  ear  for  musical,  rhythmical  sounds.  His 
verse  was  not  of  the  studied  and  tortuous  sort.  It 
flowed  forth  without  any  apparent  effort,  and  with 
all  the  naturalness  and  ease  of  a  gentle  brook.  It 


280  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

seemed  to  well  up  out  of  his  heart  like  the  water 
from  a  limpid,  sparkling  fountain.  He  had  no  re- 
course to  those  devices  adopted  by  some  poets  to 
conceal  a  poverty  of  invention  or  a  deficiency  of 
inspiration.  His  poetry,  like  his  prose,  abounds  in 
cleverness,  wit,  and  humor.  Of  course  a  vein  of 
genial  originality  runs  through  it  all.  His  early 
verse  teems  with  a  broad  humor,  which  closely 
verges  on  mere  fun,  and  it  makes  no  claim  to  seri- 
ousness or  beauty.  By  this  early  work  he  came  to 
be  known  as  a  clever,  witty,  satiric  versifier.  This 
is,  in  the  main,  the  character  of  the  volume  of 
"Humorous  Poems'7  he  published  in  1865,  and  of  his 
metrical  escapades  which  first  appeared  in  The  Col- 
legian. Into  his  famous  "Old  Ironsides,"  however, 
published  about  the  same  time,  he  infused  a  spirit 
of  impassioned  eloquence  which  made  the  ballad  far 
more  serious  and  sober  than  anything  he  had  hith- 
erto written. 

Holmes's  facility  and  versatility  combined  with 
his  wit  and  humor  to  make  him  a  favorite  writer  of 
society  verse.  No  other  American  has  probably 
equaled  Holmes  in  this  department  of  verse.  His 
services  were  greatly  in  demand  at  banquets,  class 
reunions,  and  social  gatherings  of  all  sorts;  for  he 
enjoyed  the  rare  distinction  of  being  unrivaled  as  a 
writer  of  vers  6?  occasion.  Some  of  his  jeux  d'  esprit 
are  very  happy,  and  would  be  worthy  of  quotation 
did  space  permit.  The  greater  part  of  his  poetic 
output  is  of  this  light  kind  of  verse,  and  as  a  writer 
of  such  verse  he  occupies  a  place  quite  his  own  in 
our  literature. 

But  Holmes  could  also  write  verse  of  a  graver 
nature  and  of  a  nobler  type.  Some  few  of  his  serious 
efforts  are  lyrics  of  genuine  poetry,  and  deserve  to 
be  placed  by  the  side  of  our  finest  short  poems.  \V it- 
ness  here  those  beautiful  flights  of  inspiration,  "The 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES  281 

Chambered  Nautilus''  and  "The  Living  Temple." 
The  latter  poem  is  one  of  the  finest  things  of  the 
kind  in  our  literature.  Indeed,  it  is  but  little  infer- 
ior to  Addison's  sublime  paraphrase  of  the  nine- 
teenth Psalm,  than  which  few  sacred  lyrics  in  our 
language  are  finer.  Another  excellent  hymn  of  his 
that  might  be  mentioned  here  is  that  beginning, 

"O  Love  divine !  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear." 

This  is  eminently  worthy  to  be  in  an  anthology  of 
our  best  sacred  lyrics,  and  has  already  found  its 
way  into  some  of  the  hymnals  of  our  Churches. 
Equally  exquisite  is  the  "Sunday  Hymn,"  begin- 
ning, 

"Lord  of  all  being !  throned  afar." 

As  illustrating  Holmes's  power  and  range  in  the 
domain  of  serious  poetry,  we  venture  to  quote  "The 
Living  Temple,"  partly  because  it  may  not  be  so 
well  known  and  partly  because  of  its  beauty  and 
sustained  loftiness  of  thought: 

"Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen ; 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same! 

"The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 


282  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides. 
Then  kindling  each  decaying  part 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

"But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

"See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

"Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  slender  glassy  threads! 

"O  Father!  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples-  thine! 
Vs'lien  waslhiii-  ;»»•<•  and  weaning  sti-ilV 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMKS  283 

When  darkness  gathers  over  nil, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms 
And  mold  it  into  heavenly  forms." 

This  it  must  be  admitted,  is  excellent  of  its  kind. 
"The  Last  Leaf/'  however,  is  by  some  considered 
finer  still.  It  is  probably  more  popular,  and  appeals 
to  some  more  forcibly  than  to  others.  Hundreds  of 
persons  are  said  to  know'  it  by  heart,  which  speaks 
highly  for  its  excellence.  But  it  is  not  worth  while 
to  discuss  the  relative  merits  of  Holmes's  poems 
further. 

Was  Holmes  a  great  poet?  No;  we  are  forced  to 
confess,  after  all,  that  he  was  not.  He  wrote  no  one 
poem,  nor  any  collection  of  poems,  that  stands  out 
preeminently  and  conspicuously  in  the  body  of  our 
literature.  Nothing  that  he  did  in  verse  is  quite 
sufficient  to  insure  him  a  lasting  fame  and  make 
his  name  immortal.  He  attempted  only  lyrics,  odes, 
and  ballads — nothing  of  a  dramatic  or  epic  sort. 
His  poetic  work  is  not  quite  such  as  to  entitle  him 
to  rank  with  Poe,  Longfellow,  or  Bryant.  But, 
while  he  is  not  of  this  number,  he  is  not  far  below 
them.  His  proper  place  is  perhaps  just  a  little  be- 
low these,  with  Lowell  and  poets  of  his  class — poets 
who  have  written  excellent  poetry,  but  whose  work 
is  not  of  a  character  to  entitle  them  to  stand  in  the 
front  rank  of  American  poets.  In  some  respects 
Holmes  occupies  a  unique  place  in  our  literature. 
We  refer  to  his  facility  in  writing  vers  d'  occasion. 
But  this  is  not  the  highest  form  of  verse,  not  poetry 
of  the  first  water.  Some  little  of  this  latter  kind  of 
poetry  he  did  write,  but  not  enough  to  place  him 
among  our  immortals. 

Taken  all  in  all,  Holmes's  prose  seems  to  be  of  a 
higher  order  of  merit  than  his  poetry.  The  literary 


284  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

qualities  that  he  possessed  would,  in  the  very  nature 
of  things,  achieve  distinction  for  an  author  more 
readily  in  the  domain  of  prose  than  in  that  of 
poetry.  His  racy,  witty,  humorous,  original  style 
places  him  easily  among  the  very  first  of  our  Amer- 
ican prose  writers.  His  style  is  what  might  be 
called  the  essay  style.  He  therefore  appears  at  his 
best  in  the  "Breakfast  Table"  series,  where  he  is 
unsurpassed.  In  this  department  of  prose  he  is 
superior  to  Lowell,  if  one  may  compare  the  two,  for 
Holmes's  prose  flows  on  with  fewer  interruptions 
and  turns  than  Lowell's  and  has  more  of  an  outdoor 
air  about  it.  Lowell  could  never  quite  forget  his 
library,  and  his  prose  is  consequently  somewhat 
bookish.  Now,  as  a  critic  Lowell  is  far  better,  be- 
cause Holmes  made  no  pretentious  to  criticism  and 
himself  disparaged  the  art.  As  a  novelist  Holmes 
can  hardly  be  called  successful.  His  prose  in  his 
stories  is  up  to  the  high  level  he  maintains  in  his 
essays,  and  is  sometimes  even  more  brilliant,  but 
the  plot  is  weak,  and  leaves  much  to  be  desired  from 
an  artistic  point  of  view. 

Such,  then,  in  our  judgment,  is  Holmes's  relative 
standing  among  American  men  of  letters.  His  prose 
is  of  a  more  uniformly  high  order  than  his  poetry. 
Nevertheless,  he  wrote  a  few  lyrics  of  rare  beauty 
and  excellence  which  have  already  found  their  way 
into  our  anthologies  and  are  counted  among  our 
most  highly  prized  poems.  Surely  it  is  no  small 
achievement  to  have  won  for  oneself  a  place  among 
the  very  first  of  our  American  prose  writers  and  to 
be  rated  only  a  little  below  our  best  poets. 


HOLMES 

GREAT  TREES 

(The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table.) 

—I  wonder  how  my  great  trees  are  coming  on  this 
summer. 

—Where  are  your  great  trees,  sir? — said  the  divinity- 
student. 

Oh,  all  round  about  New  England.  I  call  all  trees 
mine  that  I  have  put  my  wedding-ring  on,  and  I  have 
as  many  tree-wives  as  Brigham  Young  has  human  ones. 

— One  set's  as  green  as  the  other, — exclaimed  a 
boarder,  who  has  never  been  identified. 

They're  all  Bloomers, — said  the  young  fellow  called 
John. 

[I  should  have  rebuked  this  trifling  with  language, 
if  our  landlady's  daughter  had  not  asked  me  just  then 
what  I  meant  by  putting  my  wedding-ring  on  a  tree.] 

Why,  measuring  it  with  my  thirty-foot  tape,  my 
dear, — said  I.  — I  have  worn  a  tape  almost  out  on  the 
rough  barks  of  our  old  New  England  elms  and  other 
big  trees. — Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  talk  trees  a  lit- 
tle now?  That  is  one  of  my  specialties. 

[So  they  all  agreed  that  they  should  like  to  hear  me 
talk  about  trees.] 

I  want  you  to  understand,  in  the  first  place,  that  I 
have  a  most  intense,  passionate  fondness  for  trees  in 
general,  and  have  had  several  romantic  attachments  to 
certain  trees  in  particular.  Now,  if  you  expect  me  to 
hold  forth  in  a  "scientific"  way  about  my  tree-loves, 
—to  talk  for  instance,  of  the  Ulmus  Americana,  and 
describe  the  ciliated  edges  of  its  samara,  and  all  that, 
— you  are  an  anserine  individual,  and  I  must  refer 
you  to  a  dull  friend  who  will  discourse  to  you  of  such 


286  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

matters.  What  should  you  think  of  a  lover  who 
should  describe  the  idol  of  his  heart  in  the  language 
of  science,  thus:  Class,  Mammalia;  Order,  Primates; 
Genus,  Homo;  Species,  Europeus;  Variety,  Brown; 
Individual,  Ann  Eliza;  Dental  Formula, 
2—2  1—1  2—2  3—3 

i c  -    —p-   — m ,  and  so  on  ? 

2—2     1—1     2—2     3—3 

No,  my  friends',  I  shall  speak  of  trees  as  we  see 
them,  love  them,  adore  them  in  the  fields,  where  they 
are  alive,  holding  their  green  sun-shades  over  our 
heads,  talking  to  us  with  their  hundred  thousand 
whispering  tongues,  looking  down  on  us  with  that 
sweet  meekness  which  belongs  to  huge  but  limited 
organisms, — which  one  sees  in  the  brown  eyes  of  oxen, 
but  most  in  the  patient  posture,  the  outstretched  arms, 
and  the  heavy-drooping  robes  of  these  vast  beings 
endowed  with  life,  but  not  with  soul, — which  outgrow 
us  and  outlive  us,  but  stand  helpless, — poor  things1! — 
while  Nature  dresses  and  undresses  them,  like  so  many 
full-sized  but  under-witted  children. 

Did  you  ever  read  old  Daddy  Gilpin?  Slowest  of 
men,  even  of  English  men;  yet  delicious  in  his  slow- 
ness, as  is  the  light  of  a  sleepy  eye  in  woman.  I  always 
supposed  "Dr.  Syntax"  was  written  to  make  fun  of 
him.  I  have  a  whole  set  of  his  works,  and  am  very 
proud  of  it,  with  its  gray  paper,  and  open  typo,  and 
long  /f,  and  orange-juice  landscapes.  Pere  Gilpin 
had  a  kind  of  science  I  like  in  the  study  of  Nature, 
— a  little  less  observation  than  White  of  Selborne,  but 
a  little  more  poetry. — Just  think  of  applying  the  Lin- 
nsean  system  to  an  elm !  Who  cares  how  many  stamens 
or  pistils  that  little  brown  flower,  which  comes  out 
before  the  leaf,  may  have  to  classify  it  by?  What  wo 
want  is  the  meaning,  the  character,  the  expression  of 
a  tree,  as  a  kind  and  as  an  individual. 

There  is  a  mother  -idea  in  each  particular  kind  of 
tree,  which,  if  well  marked,  is  probably  embodiod  in 
the  poetry  of  every  language.  Take  the  oak,  for 


OLIVKU    \Yi;NDELL    IIOLMKS  287 

instance.  :m<l  wo  lind  it  always  standing  as-  a  type  of 
strength  and  endurance.  I  wonder  if  yon  over  thought 
of  a  single  mark  of  supremacy  wliidi  distinguishes  this 
tree  from  those  around  it?  The  otliers  shirk  the  work 
of  resisting  gravity;  the  oak  defies  it.  It  chooses  the 
horizontal  direction  for  its-  limbs  so  that  their  whole 
weight  may  tell, — and  then  stretches  them  out  fifty  or 
sixty  feet,  so  that  the  strain  may  be  mighty  enough  to 
be  worth  resisting.  You  will  find,  that,  in  passing  from 
the  extreme  downward  droop  of  the  branches  of  the 
weeping-willow  to  the  extreme  upward  inclination  of 
those  of  the  poplar,  they  sweep  nearly  half  a  circle.  At 
90°  the  oak  stops  short ;  to  slant  upward  another  degree 
would  mark  infirmity  of  purpose;  to  bend  downwards, 
weakness  of  the  organization.  The  American  elm 
betrays  something  of  both;  yet  sometimes,  as  we  shall 
see,  puts  on  a  certain  resemblance  to  its  sturdier 
neighbor. 

It  won't  do  to  be  exclusive  in  our  taste  about  trees. 
There  is  hardly  one  of  them  which  has  not  peculiar 
beauties  in  some  fitting  place  for  it.  I  remember  a  tall 
poplar  of  monumental  proportions  and  aspect,  a  vast 
pillar  of  glossy  green,  placed  on  the  summit  of  a  lofty 
hill,  and  a  beacon  to  all  the  country  round.  A  native 
of  that  region  saw  fit  to  build  his  house  very  near  it, 
and,  having  a  fancy  that  it  might  blow  down  some  time 
or  another,  and  exterminate  himself  and  any  incidental 
relatives  who  might  be  "stopping"  or  "tarrying"  with 
him, — also  laboring  under  the  delusion  that  human  life 
is  under  all  circumstances  to  be  preferred  to  vegetable 
existence, — had  the  great  poplar  cut  down.  It  is  so 
easy  to  say,  "It  is  only  a  poplar,77  and  so  much  harder 
to  replace  its  living  cone  than  to  build  a  granite  obe- 
lisk! 

I  must  tell  you  about  some  of  my  tree-wives.  I  was 
at  one  period  of  my  life  much  devoted  to  the  young 
lady-population  of  Rhode  Island,  a  small  but  delight- 
ful State  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pawtucket.  The 
number  of  inhabitants  being  not  very  large,  I  had 


288  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

leisure,  during  my  visits  to  the  Providence  Plantations, 
to  inspect  the  face  of  the  country  in  the  intervals  of 
more  fascinating  studies  of  physiognomy.  I  heard 
some  talk  of  a  great  elm  a  short  distance  from  the  lo- 
cality just  mentioned.  "Let  us  see  the  great  elm," — I 
said,  and  proceeded  to  find  it, — knowing  that  it  was 
on  a  certain  farm  in  a  place  called  Johnson,  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly.  I  shall  never  forget  my  ride  and  my  intro- 
duction to  the  great  Johnson  elm. 

I  always  tremble  for  a  celebrated  tree  when  I  ap- 
proach it  for  the  first  time.  Provincialism  has  no  scale 
of  excellence  in  man  or  vegetable;  it  never  knows  a 
first-rate  article  of  either  kind  when  it  has  it,  and  is 
constantly  taking  second  and  third  rate  ones  for 
Nature's  best.  I  have  often  fancied  the  tree  was  afraid 
of  me,  and  that  a  sort  of  shiver  came  over  it  as  over 
a  betrothed  maiden  when  she  first  stands  before  the 
unknown  to  whom  she  has  been  plighted.  Before  the 
measuring  tape  the  proudest  tree  of  them  all  quails 
and  shrinks  into  itself.  All  those  stories  of  four  or 
five  men  stretching  their  arms  around  it  and  not  touch- 
ing each  other's  fingers,  of  one's  pacing  the  shadow  at 
noon  and  making  it  so  many  hundred  feet,  die  upon 
its  leafy  lips  in  the  presence  of  the  awful  ribbon  which 
has  strangled  so  many  false  pretensions. 

As  I  rode  along  the  pleasant  way,  watching  eagerly 
for  the  object  of  my  journey,  the  rounded  tops  of  the 
elms  rose  from  time  to  time  at  the  roadside.  Wher- 
ever one  looked  taller  and  fuller  than  the  rest,  I  asked 
myself,  "Is  this  it?"  But  as  I  drew  nearer,  they 
grew  smaller,  or  it  proved,  perhaps,  that  two  standing 
in  a  line  had  looked  like  one,  and  so  deceived  mo. 
At  last,  all  at  once,  when  I  was  not  thinking  of  it, — 
I  declare  to  you  it  makes  my  flesh  creep  when  I  think 
of  it  now, — all  at  once  I  saw  a  great  green  cloud 
swelling  in  the  horizon,  so  vast,  so  symmetrical,  of 
such  Olympian  majesty  and  imperial  supremacy 
among  the  lesser  forest-growths,  that  my  heart  stopped 
short,  then  jumped  at  my  ribs  as  a  hunter  springs  at  a 


OLIVIA  \VI;NDELL  IIOLMKS  289 

five-barred  gate,  and  I  felt  all  through  me,  without 
need  of  uttering  the  words,  "This  is  it!" 

You  will  find  this  tree  described,  wiili  many  others-, 
in  the  excellent  "Report  upon  the  Trees  and  Shrubs  of 
Massachusetts."  The  author  has  given  my  friend  the 
Professor  credit  for  some  of  his  measurements,  but 
measured  this  tree  himself  carefully.  It  is  a  grand 
elm  for  size  of  trunk,  spread  of  limbs,  and  muscular 
development, — one  of  the  first,  perhaps  the  first,  of 
the  first  class  of  New  England  elms. 

The  largest  actual  girth  I  have  ever  found  at  five 
feet  from  the  ground  is  in  the  great  elm  lying  a  stone's 
throw  or  two  north  of  the  main  road  (if  my  points  of 
compass  are  right)  in  Springfield.  But  this  has  much 
the  appearance  of  having  been  formed  by  the  union  of 
two  trunks  growing  side  by  side. 

The  West- Springfield  elm  and  one  upon  North- 
ampton meadows  belong  also  to  the  first  class  of  trees. 
There  is  a  noble  old  wreck  of  an  elm  at  Hatfield, 
which  used  to  spread  its  claws  out  over  a  circumfer- 
ence of  thirty-five  feet  or  more  before  they  covered 
the  foot  of  its  bole  up  with  earth.  This  is  the 
American  elm  most  like  an  oak  of  any  I  have  ever 
seen. 

The  Sheffield  elm  is  equally  remarkable  for  size  and 
perfection  of  form.  I  have  seen  nothing  that  comes 
near  it  in  Berkshire  County,  and  few  to  compare  with 
it  anywhere.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  remember  any 
other  first-class  elms  in  New  England,  but  there  may 
be  many. 

-What  makes  a  first-class  elm?  —  Why,  size,  in 
the  first  place,  and  chiefly.  Anything  over  twenty 
feet  of  clear  girth,  five  feet  above  the  ground,  and 
with  a  spread  of  branches  a  hundred  feet  across,  may 
claim  that  title,  according  to  my  scale.  All  of  them, 
with  the  questionable  exception  of  the  Springfield 
tree  above  referred  to,  stop,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  at  about  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  feet  of  girth 
and  a  hundred  and  twenty  of  spread. 


290  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Elms  of  the  second  class,  generally  ranging  from 
fourteen  to  eighteen  feet,  are  comparatively  common. 
The  queen  of  them  all  is  that  glorious  tree  near  one 
of  the  churches  in  Springfield.  Beautiful  and  stately 
she  is  beyond  all  praise.  The  "great  tree"  on  Boston 
Common  comes  in  the  second  rank,  as  does  the  one  at 
Cohasset,  which  used  to  have,  and  probably  has  still, 
a  head  as  round  as  an  apple-tree,  and  that  at  Newbury- 
port,  with  scores  of  others  which  might  be  mentioned. 
These  last  two  have  perhaps  been  over-celebrated. 
Both,  however,  are  pleasing  vegetables.  The  poor  old 
Pittsfield  elm  lives  on  its  past  reputation.  A  wig  of 
false  leaves  is  indispensable  to  make  it  presentable. 

[I  don't  doubt  there  may  be  some  monster-elm  or 
other,  vegetating  green,  but  inglorious,  in  some  remote 
New  England  village,  which  only  wants  a  sacred  singer 
to  make  it  celebrated.  Send  us  your  measurements, 
—  (certified  by  the  postmaster,  to  avoid  possible  im- 
position),— circumference  five  feet  from  soil,  length 
of  line  from  bough-end  to  bough-end,  and  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done  for  you.] 

—I  wish  somebody  would  get  us  up  the  following 
work : — 

"SYLVA    NOVANGLICA. 

Photographs  of  New  England  Elms  and  other  Trees, 
taken  upon  the  Same  Scale  of  Magnitude.  With 
Letter-Press  Descriptions,  by  a  distinguished  Lite- 
rary Gentleman.  Boston:  -  &  Co.  185 — ." 

The  sume  camera  should  be  used,  as  far  as  possible, 
at  a  fixed  distance.  Our  friend,  who  has  given  us 
so  many  interesting  figures  in  his  "Trees  of  America." 
must  not  think  1his  Prospectus  invades  his  province; 
a  dozen  portraits,  with  lively  descriptions,  would  be  a 
pretty  complement  to  his  large  work,  which,  so  far  as 
published,  I  find  excellent.  If  my  plan  were  carried 
out,  and  another  series  of  a  dozen  English  trees  pho- 


OLIVKK    WKNDELL   HOLMES  291 

tographed  on  the  same  scale,  the  comparison  would  be 
charming. 

It  has  always  been  a  favorite  idea  of  mine  to  bring 
the  life  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World  face  to  face, 
by  an  accurate  comparison  of  their  various  types  of 
organization.  We  should  begin  with  man,  of  course; 
institute  a  large  and  exact  comparison  between  the 
development  of  la  piantd  innana,  as  Alfieri  called  it, 
in  different  sections  of  each  country,  in  the  different 
callings,  at  different  ages,  estimating  height,  weight, 
force  by  the  dynamometer  and  the  spironieter,  and 
finishing  off  with  a  series  of  typical  photographs,  giv- 
ing the  principal  national  physiognomies.  Mr.  Hutch- 
inson  has  given  us  some  excellent  English  data  to  begin 
with. 

Then  I  would  follow  this  up  by  contrasting  the  vari- 
ous- parallel  forms  of  life  in  the  two  continents.  Our 
naturalists  have  often  referred  to  this  incidentally  or 
expressly;  but  the  animus  of  Nature  in  the  two  half 
globes  of  the  planet  is  so  momentous  a  point  of  interest 
to  our  race,  that  it  should  be  made  a  subject  of  express 
and  elaborate  study.  Go  out  with  me  into  that  walk 
which  we  call  "the  Mall,"  and  look  at  the  English 
and  American  elms.  The  American  elm  is  tall,  grace- 
ful, slender-sprayed,  and  drooping  as  if  from  languor. 
The  English  elm  is  compact,  robust,  holds  its  branches 
up,  and  carries  its  leaves  for  weeks  longer  than  our 
own  native  tree. 

Is  this  typical  of  the  creative  force  on  the  two  sides 
of  the  ocean,  or  not?  Nothing  but  a  careful  compari- 
son through  the  whole  realm  of  life  can  answer  this 
question. 

There  is  a  parallelism  without  identity  in  the  animal 
and  vegetable  life  of  the  two  continents,  which  favors 
the  task  of  comparison  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
Just  as  we  have  two  trees  alike  in  many  ways,  yet  not 
the  same,  both  elms,  yet  easily  distinguishable,  just  so 
we  have  a  complete  flora  and  a  fauna,  which,  parting 
from  the  same  ideal,  embody  it  with  various  modifica- 


292  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

tions.  Inventive  power  is  the  only  quality  of  which 
the  Creative  Intelligence  seems  to  be  economical ;  just 
as  with  our  largest  human  minds,  that  is  the  divinest 
of  faculties,  and  the  one  that  most  exhausts  the  mind 
which  exercises  it.  As  the  same  patterns  have  very 
commonly  been  followed,  we  can  see  which  is  worked 
out  in  the  largest  spirit,  and  determine  the  exact  lim- 
itations under  which  the  Creator  places  the  movement 
of  life  in  all  its  manifestations  in  either  locality.  We 
should  find  ourselves  in  a  very  false  position  if  it 
should  prove  that  Anglo-Saxons  can't  live  here,  but 
die  out,  if  not  kept  up  by  fresh  supplies,  as  Dr.  Knox 
and  other  more  or  less  wise  persons  have  maintained. 
It  may  turn  out  the  other  way,  as  I  have  heard  one  of 
our  literary  celebrities  argue, — and  though  I  took 
the  other  side,  I  liked  his  best, — that  the  American 
is  the  Englishman  reinforced. 

-Will  you  walk  out  and  look  at  those  elms  with 
me  after  breakfast? — I  said  to  the  schoolmistress. 

[I  am  not  going  to  tell  lies  about  it,  and  say  that 
she  blushed, — as  I  suppose  she  ought  to  have  done, 
at  such  a  tremendous  piece  of  gallantry  as  that  was 
for  our  boarding-house.  On  the  contrary,  she  turned 
a  little  pale,  but  smiled  brightly  and  said, — Yes,  with 
pleasure,  but  she  must  walk  towards  her  school.— 
She  went  for  her  bonnet.  The  old  gentleman  oppo- 
site followed  her  with  his  eyes,  and  said  he  \vished 
he  was  a  young  fellow.  Presently  she  came  dmvn, 
looking  very  pretty  in  her  half-mourning  bonnet,  and 
carrying  a  schoolbook  in  her  hand.] 


CHAPTER  XII 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Of  all  our  American  singers,  Whittier  deserves 
preeminently  the  distinction  of  being  the  poet  of 
the  people.  By  sheer  force  of  his  moral  character, 
coupled  with  his  facile  lyrical  gift,  this  poor  New 
England  country  boy  worked  his  way  up  from 
obscurity  and,  by  his  poetical  achievement,  left 
behind  him,  in  the  domain  of  American  letters,  a 
name  of  which  any  author  might  justly  feel  proud. 
As  a  poet  of  the  people  the  Quaker  bard  reflects  in 
his  verse  the  feelings  and  sentiments,  the  ideals  and 
aspirations,  at  least  in  a  measure,  of  the  American 
nation.  But,  like  Wordsworth,  Whittier  is  a  very 
unequal  poet.  At  his  best  he  is  noble  and  uplifting 
and  his  message  stirs  and  stimulates  the  reader  to 
inspiring  conceptions  and  purposes.  When  his 
genius  deserts  him  and  inspiration  is  wanting,  his 
muse  is  decidedly  pedestrian  and  lapses  into  mere 
doggerel.  On  such  occasions  he  exhibits  some  glar- 
ing defects  which  materially  mar  the  beauty  and 
melody  of  his  verse,  such  as  his  atrocious  rhymes, 
his  slipshod  habit  of  pronunciation,  and  his  unpar- 
donable tenuity  and  tediousness.  Yet,  despite 
these  serious*  blemishes,  his  poetry  took  firm  hold 
upon  the  affections  of  his  countrymen  and  won  for 
its  author  a  permanent  and  enduring  name  in  our 
literature. 

W^hittier  came  of  good  sturdy  New  England 
stock.  His  ancestors  for  several  generations  back 
had  lived  in  the  Merrimac  Valley  of  Eastern  Massa- 
chusetts, and  were  known  as  honest,  law-abiding, 


294  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

God-fearing  tillers  of  the  soil,  who  served  their  na- 
tive State  faithfully  in  their  humble  sphere. 
Thomas  Whittier,  one  of  our  poet's  forebears,  set- 
tled in  Salisbury,  near  Amesbury,  Massachusetts, 
as  early  as  1638.  Nine  years  later  he  removed  to 
Haverhill,  and  there  this  thrifty,  upright  son  of 
Anak,  with  his  own  hands,  hewed  out  the  oak  tim- 
bers for  the  house  in  which  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier  was  destined  to  be  born  on  the  17th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1807.  The  poet's  ancestors  on  the  mother's 
side — the  Greenleafs — were  of  the  same  plain,  sub- 
stantial country  folk. 

Whittier's  father  was  a  hard-working  tiller  of  the 
soil,  and  he  desired  his  son,  John  Greenleaf,  to  fol- 
low the  same  independent  vocation.  But  nature 
had  endowed  the  boy  with  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
knowledge;  and  his  mother,  who  understood  his 
temperament  better  than  his  father,  fostered  her 
son's  ambition,  herself  instructing  him  and  caring 
for  his  spiritual  development.  The  chief  text-book 
used  in  that  Quaker  home  was  the  Bible;  and  its 
teachings  entered  into  the  very  warp  and  woof  of 
Whittier's  early  life,  imparting  to  it  a  distinctly 
moral  and  religious  coloring. 

Whittier  had  inherited  a  frail  body  and  a  weak 
constitution.  His  health  therefore  was  never 
robust,  and  he  was  compelled  to  husband  his 
strength.  When  a  boy,  nnlike  his  brothers,  he  was 
not  able  to  do  the  hard  work  of  the  farm,  and  for 
this  reason  he  was  assigned  light  tasks  on  the  farm 
and  performed  chores  about  the  house.  He  has 
given  us  a  vivid  and  striking  picture  of  his  experi- 
ences as  a  New  England  lad  in  his  autobiographical 
idyl,  "Snow- Mmmd."  He  was  fond  of  domestic  ani- 
mals,— dogs,  horses  and  cattle, — and  his  sensitive 
nature  responded  readily  to  the  wholesome  influence 
of  his  home  life.  "I  found,"  said  he  in  later  life,  in 


JOHN   GREENLEAF    WIIITTIKU  295 

reply  to  questions  as  to  his  early  life, — "I  found 
about  equal  satisfaction  in  an  old  rural  home,  with 
the  shifting  panorama  of  the  seasons,  in  reading  the 
few  hooks  within  my  reach  and  dreaming  of  some- 
thing wonderful  and  grand  somewhere  in  the 
future.  .  .  .  The  beauty  of  outward  nature 
early  impressed  me,  and  the  moral  and  spiritual 
beauty  of  the  holy  lives  I  read  of  in  the  Bible  and 
other  good  books  also  affected  me  with  a  sense  of 
my  falling  short  and  longing  for  a  better  state." 

The  region  along  the  Merrimac  in  Essex  County 
in  which  Whittier  passed  his  boyhood  is  an  attract- 
ive and  typical  New  England  landscape.  It  com- 
mands a  distant  view  of  the  mountains  and  is  yet 
within  sound  of  the  sea.  The  scenery  is  diversified 
by  field  and  woodland,  hill  and  dale,  meadow  and 
stream.  Kemote  from  the  pulsating,  bustling  life 
of  the  crowded  city,  Amesbury  was  still  near 
enough  to  Newburyport  to  feel  the  stimulating  ef- 
fect even  of  that  small  center  of  trade  and  com- 
merce. The  locality,  too,  is  rich  in  history  and 
legendary  lore,  which  circumstance  kindled  and 
quickened  the  young  poet's  imagination,  filling  his 
mind  with  noble  plans  and  purposes. 

Amid  these  charming  surroundings  then  Whit- 
tier  spent  his  boyhood  days.  Here  he  attended  the 
little  district  school  and  acquired  the  rudiments  of 
an  education.  He  went  to  school  intermittently 
till  his  nineteenth  year,  being  kept  at  home  at  fre- 
quent intervals  to  work  on  the  farm.  The  poverty 
of  his  father  precluded  his  enjoying  the  educational 
advantages  of  that  famous  center  of  learning  and 
culture  only  thirty-four  miles  distant  from  Ames- 
bury.  Indeed,  Whittier  seems  to  have  visited  Bos- 
ton only  once  before  he  was  twenty,  though  it  was 
so  near ;  and  even  then  he  returned  the  day  after,  a 
bewildered  and  depressed  country  lad,  glad  to  es- 


296  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

cape,  he  tells  us,  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  that 
teeming  city. 

In  his  father's  home  young  Whittier  had  access 
to  but  few  books,  perhaps  thirty-odd  volumes  in  all, 
and  these  mostly  sermons  and  biographies  of  noted 
Friends.  These  few  books  he  read  again  and  again. 
He  informs  us  that  he  was  acquainted  with  "Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  and  that  its  graphic  pictures  of 
the  conflict  of  Christian  with  Apollyon  made  a  last- 
ing impression  on  his  youthful  imagination.  He 
cheerfully  acknowledged  his  indebtedness  to  a  worn 
and  thumb-stained  copy  of  Murray's  "English 
Header"  and  of  Bingham's  "American  Preceptor." 
He  occasionally  borrowed  a  volume  of  adventures 
and  travels.  Once  he  stumbled  upon  a  volume  of 
Scott  which,  he  says,  he  read  with  his  sister  stealth- 
ily at  night,  the  candle  invariably  expiring  before 
the  climax  of  the  story  was  reached.  Of  good 
poetry  there  was  a  woeful  lack  in  his  father's 
meager  library;  but  he  records  "how  at  an  early 
age,  the  solemn  organ  roll  of  Gray's  'Elegy'  and  the 
lyric  sweep  and  pathos  of  Cowper's  'Lament  for  the 
Royal  George'  moved  and  fascinated  me  with  a 
sense  of  mystery  and  power,  felt  rather  than  un- 
derstood." It  was  truly  a  red-letter  day  in  his 
early  life  when  a  copy  of  Burns  fell  into  his  hands, 
opening  up  to  him  a  new  Avorld  of  sentiment  and 
song. 

It  was  a  casual  circumstance,  almost  a  sheer  acci- 
dent, by  which  a  copy  of  the  passionate  Scotch  poet 
fell  into  young  Whittier's  hands.  Yet  it  fired  his 
ambition  and  proved  the  Ithuriel's  spear  which 
touched  and  revealed  Whittier's  true  poetic  genius. 
Though  a  mere  lad  of  fourteen,  Whittier  now  began 
to  indite  verses.  To  be  sure,  these  juvenile  effu- 
sions were  pure  doggerel;  but  the  author  soon 
passed  to  the  second  stage  of  versifying,  and  pro- 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  297 

duced  imitative  work  after  the  model  of  the  lines 
published  in  the  local  newspaper  and  in  his  school 
reader.  These  imitations  soon  found  favor  with 
the  weeklies  of  the  neighboring  towns,  and  the  pros- 
pective poet  was  delighted  to  behold  his  maiden 
verses  in  print,  adorning  the  poetical  corner  of 
some  Essex  County  weekly.  One  of  these  "original 
poems"  appeared  in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  a 
short-lived  journal  edited  by  William  Lloyd  Garri- 
son, with  the  result  that  the  noted  Abolitionist  very 
soon  discovered  the  young  Quaker  poet  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  world.  Upon  the  urgent  advice  of 
Garrison,  who  recognized  Whittier's  lyrical  gift,  the 
boy  was  rather  reluctantly  sent  by  his  father  to  the 
Haverhill  Academy.  Here  he  spent  two  terms, 
working  during  vacation,  alternately  at  teaching 
and  making  slippers,  in  order  to  eke  out  the  frugal 
support  allowed  by  his  father's  scant  means. 

His  residence  at  Haverhill  Academy  afforded 
Whittier,  for  the  first  time,  access  to  a  library ;  and 
he  reveled  in  the  privilege,  eagerly  devouring  book 
after  book.  By  diligent  and  untiring  application 
at  the  academy  he  succeeded  in  compounding,  at 
least  somewhat,  for  his  sad  lack  of  books  in  his 
earlier  years,  and  broadened  and  deepened  his  in- 
tellectual equipment  for  his  future  work  as  a  jour- 
nalist, reformer  and  poet.  But  he  received  there 
only  the  rudiments  of  a  sound  education.  His 
preparation  was  meager  at  best  and  was  not  to 
be  compared  with  the  thorough  collegiate  training 
which  his  fellow-poets,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Holmes 
and  Emerson,  carried  with  them  each  into  his  work 
as  a  man  of  letters.  Even  Bryant  with  his  slight 
mental  training  entered  the  race  of  life  with  a 
lighter  handicap  than  did  Whittier.  But  Whittier 
accepted  the  conditions  which  his  father's  scant  for- 
tune had  imposed  upon  him,  and  himself  strove  to 


298  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

supplement  his  lack  of  formal  preparation  by  unre- 
mitting effort  and  energy.  His  poetic  accomplish- 
ment is  therefore  all  the  more  creditable  and 
praiseworthy  because  he  is  a  self-made  man. 

Whittier  meanwhile  continued,  with  unabated 
zeal,  to  write  verse.  His  effusions,  moreover,  were 
eagerly  sought  after  by  the  local  papers,  especially 
the  Haverhill  Gazette,  in  which  as  many  as  one 
hundred  of  his  poems  are  reputed  to  have  appeared, 
besides  numerous  prose  articles,  during  the  years 
1827  and  1828.  But  the  columns  of  other  papers 
also  were  gladly  thrown  open  to  the  productions  of 
his  muse.  Contributions  from  his  pen  were  invited 
by  the  Essex  Gazette,  the  Boston  Philanthropist 
and  the  Statesman.  The  author  not  infrequently 
had  the  gratification  of  seeing  his  poems  copied  far 
and  wide  by  other  papers,  which  was,  if  not  a  sign 
of  popular  favor,  at  least  a  sincere  form  of  flattery. 

Of  these  schoolboy  poems  it  may  be  said  that  they 
were,  for  the  most  part,  imitative  and  possessed 
little  originality.  They  were  written  chiefly  in 
imitation  of  the  Irish  melodist  Moore  and  of  Mrs. 
Hemans.  The  taste  of  the  rural  editors,  somehow, 
turned  to  Mrs.  Hemans  in  those  days.  It  was  quite 
natural  then  that  Whittier  should  have  taken  her 
moral  and  didactic  lyrics  as  his  favorite  model  when 
he  felt  impelled  to  write  for  the  poetical  corner  in 
the  country  newspaper.  The  cordial  approbation 
accorded  Whittier  by  his  neighbors  and  by  the 
local  editors  did  not  fail,  however,  to  elicit  some 
minor  note  of  criticism.  The  critics  challenged! 
his  originality  and  alleged  that  the  Amesbury  bard 
borrowed  largely  from  other  poets.  But  the  editors 
speedily  took  up  the  cudgels  in  behalf  of  the  boy 
poet,  and  before  the  discussion  ended,  they  even 
projected  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems  by 
"Adrian" — a  pseudonym  under  which  Whittier  fre- 


JOHN  <;KI:I:NLI:AF  WHITTIKU  299 

qnently  wrote.  The  project  came  to  naught,  albeit 
the  poet  was  convinced  thereby  of  the  uniform  ap- 
proval of  his  verse,  and  the  sting  of  the  adverse 
criticism  was  removed. 

In  1828,  just  as  \Vhit tier  had  arrived  at  his  ma- 
jority and  was  confronted  with  the  question  as  to 
his  life-work,  which  every  thoughtful  young  man 
must  face  at  the  opening  of  his  career,  his  first 
patron,  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  who  had  been 
editor  of  the  Boston  Philanthropist,  named  him  to 
the  proprietor  of  that  journal  as  the  man  best  fitted 
to  succeed  him  as  editor.  This  position,  so  oppor- 
tunely tendered  him  without  the  least  solicitation 
on  his  part,  Whittier  gladly  accepted  because  it 
afforded  him  a  livelihoo'd  in  a  field  quite  to  his 
taste.  This  was  the  turning-point  in  young  Whit- 
tier's  life.  If  that  opportunity  had  not  come  at 
that  juncture,  Whittier  might  have  been  an  obscure 
village  school  teacher,  or  an  unsuccessful  farmer 
compelled  by  his  indigent  circumstances  to  dissi- 
pate his  "divine  energy"  in  the  prosy  task  of  wrest- 
ing a  bare  subsistence  from  a  reluctant  soil. 
Neither  of  these  vocations  was  to  his  taste.  The 
former,  after  two  years7  experience,  he  had  become 
utterly  disgusted  with ;  and  the  latter  imposed  upon 
his  infirm  constitution  a  heavier  burden  than  he 
could  bear.  So,  with  high  spirits  and  under  favor- 
able auspices,  Whittier  entered  upon  his  life  career 
of  journalism,  which  was  destined  to  be  checkered, 
eventful  and  strenuous.  Nor  was  it  the  least 
source  of  gratification  to  him  that  this  new  field  of 
activity  had  opened  up  to  him  mainty  in  conse- 
quence of  the  early  distinction  of  his  verse. 

When  Whittier  arrived  in  Boston,  however,  he 
learned  that  it  was  not  the  Philanthropist  that  he 
was  to  edit,  but  the  American  Manufacturer,  which 
the  proprietor  of  the  former  sheet  intended  to  es- 


300  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

tablish,  in  order  to  further  the  interests  of  Clay's 
"American  system"  and  the  new  protective  tariff. 
In  the  capacity  of  editor  of  a  trade  journal  it  fell  to 
Whittier's  lot  to  write  upon  subjects  pertaining  to 
political  economy  and  to  point  out  the  advantages 
of  the  tariff  to  the  manufacturing  interests  of  the 
country.  For  this  kind  of  writing  the  promising 
young  editor  possessed  no  special  aptitude  or  quali- 
fication. Yet  he  shaped  his  office  so  as  to  include 
in  the  columns  of  the  Manufacturer  some  verse  and 
much  prose  that  did  not  strictly  fall  within  the 
province  of  a  journal  of  its  class.  .Of  Whittier's 
prose  it  may  be  observed  here  that  it  is  so  far 
eclipsed  by  his  verse  that  it  may  be  practically 
ignored  in  the  present  study,  which  essays  to  deter- 
mine his  place  as  one  of  the  standard  American 
poets. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1830,  Whittier, 
on  whom  devolved  the  management  of  the  ancestral 
farm,  severed  his  connection  with  the  Manufacturer 
and  became  editor  of  the  Haverhill  Gazette.  This 
new  post  proved  more  congenial.  However,  he  soon 
resigned  this,  too,  to  accept  the  editorship  of  the 
Hartford  Neiv  England  Review  as  successor  to  the 
talented  journalist  George  D.  Prentice.  This  jour- 
nal afforded  Whittier  a  much  broader  field  for  liter- 
ary work,  and  his  experience  was  very  stimulating 
and  helpful  to  him.  Yet  he  did  not  continue  his 
relation  with  the  Review  long,  for  in  1831  we  find 
him  again  with  the  Gazette.  From  1837-1840  he 
was  editor  of  the  National  Enquirer;  afterwards  he 
associated  himself  with  various  journals,  in  turn,  in 
Philadelphia,  Washington,  New  York  and  Massa- 
chusetts. In  1857  he  assisted  in  establishing  that 
famous  literary  monthly,  The  Atlantic,  and  for  the 
first  decade  of  its  existence  contributed  very  liber- 
ally to  its  columns. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  301 

But  Whittier  had  not  confined  his  attention 
strictly  to  journalism.  He  was  fast  developing  into 
a  politician.  National  politics  especially  possessed 
for  him  an  absorbing  interest.  Congress  was  the 
iin mediate  goal  of  his  political  ambition  when  his 
failing  health  warned  him  that  he  was  not  equal  to 
the  arduous  labors  of  the  usual  campaign,  and  that 
he  must  therefore  forego  this  object  of  his  aspira- 
tion. However,  in  1831,  he  was  sent  as  a  delegate 
to  the  Whig  National  Convention.  Two  years 
later,  after  mature  consideration,  he  took  a  step 
which  marked  ^an  epoch  in  his  life.  He  identified 
himself  with  the  Abolitionists,  then  quite  unpopu- 
lar throughout  the  entire  Union,  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  contribute  to  the  amelioration  of  the  con- 
dition of  the  negro  slaves  in  the  South.  He  was 
sent  as  a  delegate  to  the  An ti- Slavery  National 
Convention.  Among  the  stormiest  incidents  of  his 
life  were  those  growing  out  of  his  activity  in  the 
cause  of  the  Abolitionists.  But  Whittier  is  be- 
lieved to  have  been  actuated  by  a  strong  sense  of 
duty  when  he  went  over  to  the  ranks  of  Garrison's 
party,  and  to  have  been  prompted  by  stern  convic- 
tion when  he  advocated  the  principles  of  the  Aboli- 
tionists. For  that  movement  in  the  thirties  was  ex- 
tremely unpopular  even  in  the  North,  and  one  can 
hardly  believe  that  the  Quaker  poet  would  have 
courted  social  unpopularity  and  bodily  harm  as  he 
did  by  his  avowed  course  of  action,  if  he  had  not 
been  moved  by  a  profound  sense  of  duty.  He  was 
willing  therefore  to  take  the  risk  of  personal  vio- 
lence which  his  course  of  conduct  invited.  Even 
when  he  was  assaulted  by  the  mob,  he  felt  that  he 
was  acting  in  the  line  of  duty. 

Whittier,  it  is  interesting  to  observe,  did  not  at 
first  take  an  active  part  in  the  slavery  agitation.  A 
Quaker  by  descent  as  well  as  by  choice,  he  naturally 


302  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

shared  the  sentiment  for  peace  characteristic  of 
that  sect.  But  the  more  he  studied  slavery,  the 
more  heartily  and  unreservedly  he  threw  himself 
into  the  movement  for  the  emancipation  of  the 
negro  slaves  in  the  United  States.  By  pen  and 
tongue,  in  public  and  private,  he  condemned  slavery 
as  an  institution,  and  kept  agitating  the  question 
year  in  and  year  out,  till  the  national  conscience 
was  at  last  aroused  and  the  issue  was  settled  by  the 
arbitrament  of  war.  Long  before  the  Civil  War, 
however,  Whittier  strove  by  his  impassioned  lyrics 
to  crystallize  public  sentiment  throughout  the  en- 
tire country,  and  especially  in  New  England,  in 
favor  of  negro  emancipation. 

But  Whittier  did  not  surrender  himself,  during 
that  long  period  from  the  early  thirties  to  the  out- 
break Of  the  Civil  War,  unreservedly  and  abso- 
lutely to  his  exacting  duties  as  a  social  reformer. 
The  instincts  of  the  author  in  him  were  stronger 
than  those  of  the  reformer.  Though  he  wrote  much; 
that  was  directly  inspired  by  the  emancipation 
movement,  he  produced  more  that  is  of  the  class 
of  pure  literature.  Close  upon  the  heels  of  his 
maiden  volume,  "Legends  of  New  England,"  he 
sent  out  into  the  world  an  anonymous  poem,  "Moll 
Pitcher."  In  1836  he  published  his  longest  poem, 
"Mogg  Megone,"  and  the  following  year  the  first 
collection  of  his  poems  under  the  unattractive 
title,  "Poems  Avritten  during  the  Progress  of  the 
Abolition  Question  in  the  United  States  between 
the  Years  1830  and  1838."  Not  to  give  a  cata- 
logue of  his  separate  poems,  suffice  it  to  say  that 
his  muse  was  regarded  rather  prolific  and  that  the 
poet,  from  the  very  incipiency  of  his  career,  en- 
joyed a  reputation  rather  popular  than  critical. 
Most  of  this  early  verse  of  our  poet  is  of  the  class 
termed  occasional,  and  is  not  above  the  dead  level 


JOHN    GREENLKAF    WIIITTIKK  303 

of  mediocrity.  It  lacks  spontaneity  and  genuine 
inspiration,  and  like  its  author's  juvenile  effusions, 
is  to  a  considerable  extent  imitative.  In  the  work 
of  this  formative  period  Whittier's  models  were 
evidently  Mrs.  Hemans,  Scott  and  Byron,  of  each 
of  whom  there  are  striking  reminiscences.  The 
bard's  struggle  to  throw  away  his  crutches  and 
walk  alone  is  little  short  of  pathetic.  But  he  still 
lacked  confidence  in  himself  and  felt  that  he  must 
lean  on  some  one.  His  verse,  too,  was  frequently 
marred  and  defaced  by  glaring  indications  of  hasty 
workmanship.  Indeed,  most  of  his  mature  work 
even  is  open  to  criticism  on  this  score. 

But  despite  its  obvious  blemishes  Whittier's 
poetry  was  beginning  to  be  appreciated  by  the  read- 
ing public.  The  sales  of  his  books,  though  by  no 
means  large,  were  somewhat  remunerative.  The 
author  now  for  the  first  time  began  to  enjoy  some 
relief  from  his  hitherto  chronic  condition  of  finan- 
cial embarrassment.  He  was  not  yet  in  affluence, 
however,  and  his  income  was  still  not  liberal  enough 
to  relieve  him  of  the  necessity  of  economizing.  But 
the  pinch  of  poverty  was  not  so  acute,  and  his  fu- 
ture was  bright  with  the  bow  of  hope. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  Whittier  sold  the 
paternal  homestead  and  moved  to  Amesbury,  where 
he  bought  a  neat,  unpretentious  cottage.  This  mod- 
est house  wTas  destined  to  be  the  home  of  the  poet, 
fop  the  most  part,  during  the  remaining  half  cen- 
tury of  his  life.  Under  its  roof  he  did  most  of  his 
literary  work  from  1840  on,  cheered  and  inspired  by 
the  presence  of  his  aged  mother  and  his  affectionate 
sister  Elizabeth,  who  proved  a  veritable  "angel  in 
the  house."  The  poet  was  devoted  to  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  never  married,  though  he  had  many 
and  warm  friendships  with  women  of  congenial 
tastes.  In  his  early  life  he  sued  for  the  hand  and 


304  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

heart,  it  is  said,  of  the  talented  poetess  Lucy 
Hooper,  who  died  a  premature  death  at  24 ;  and  his 
beautiful,  pensive  lyric  "Memories"  is  thought  to 
have  been  inspired  by  this  affection.  If  this  be 
true,  the  circumstance  adds  a  touch  of  pathos  to  his 
life  of  celibacy. 

As  to  his  personal  appearance,  Whittier  was  con- 
sidered an  engaging  and  impressive  figure.  He  is 
described  as  tall  and  slight,  with  a  quick,  elastic 
step,  his  eyes  brown  and  penetrating,  and  his  entire 
demeanor  serene  and  rather  grave.  In  the  conven- 
tional Quaker  costume  which  he  wore  he  presented 
a  distinguished  appearance. 

In  the  year  1857  Whittier  suffered  a  severe  be- 
reavement in  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  his  spirit 
was  almost  crushed  by  the  blow.  Yet  a  month 
later,  in  his  sorrow  and  grief,  he  penned  those  beau- 
tiful lines,  "Telling  the  Bees."  Not  many  years 
after,  he  had  to  sustain  the  death  of  his  favorite 
sister,  and  his  home  was  broken  up.  Again,  amid 
his  tears  and  anguish  he  transmuted  his  deep  afflic- 
tion into  a  lyric  of  exquisite  beauty  and  pathos, 
"The  Vanishers,"  which  has  brought  untold  com- 
fort and  inspiration  to  thousands  of  readers.  A 
peculiar  interest  attaches  to  these  productions  of 
Whittier's  muse  because  of  the  pathetic  circum- 
stances immediately  preceding  their  composition. 
Like  many  another  bard,  Whittier  had  learned  in 
sorrow  what  he  uttered  in  song. 

In  1843,  when  he  was  well-nigh  forty,  Whittier 
gave  to  the  world  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  "Lays 
of  My  Home."  The  book  met  with  a  flattering  re- 
ception and,  what  was  almost  as  gratifying  to  the 
indigent  laureate,  it  had  a  moderately  wide  sale. 
This  was  the  first  book  to  bring  its  author  consider- 
able pecuniary  compensation  as  well  as  poetic  fame. 
If  Whittier  had  published  less  and  bestowed  more 


JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIKU  305 

pains  upon  the  product  of  his  art,  his  work  would 
probably  have  been  more  remunerative.  But  the 
truth  is,  he  had  the  habit  of  writing  mostly  for  news- 
papers, and  the  press  in  that  day  offered  but  small 
honorarium  to  its  contributors.  Much  of  the  work, 
too,  that  he  turned  out  was  but  little  above  hack- 
work. But  Whittier,  it  is  evident,  had  caught  the 
public  ear,  and  his  poems  were  quoted  far  and  wide 
in  the  newspapers.  As  the  political  troubles  which 
resulted  in  the  bitter  struggle  of  the  sixties  loomed 
up  larger  and  larger,  absorbing  public  attention, 
Whittier's  interest  in  the  agitation  for  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  negro  grew  deeper  and  more  intense; 
and  naturally  he  was  profoundly  stirred  by  many 
an  incident  of  those  times.  It  is  to  one  of  those 
stirring  incidents — the  Latimer  fugitive  slave  case 
—that  his  fiery  lyric  "Massachusetts  to  Virgina" 
was  indebted  for  its  inspiration.  His  poem  "Texas : 
Voice  of  New  England"  had  a  similar  origin.  It 
was  born  of  the  times,  when  the  country  was  deeply 
agitated  by  the  question  of  the  admission  of  that  re- 
public as  a  free  state  into  the  Union.  The  ante- 
bellum political  questions  and  discussions  fur- 
nished the  inspiration  and  theme  of  most  of  our 
author's  occasional  verse  and  fugitive  poems  which 
appeared  in  "Voices  of  Freedom/7  "Songs  of  Labor," 
and  in  the  other  collections  published  prior  to  1860. 
Having  thrown  his  whole  heart  into  the  anti-slavery 
agitation,  Whittier  wrote  and  sang  out  of  ttie  deep- 
seated  conviction  that  he  was  but  doing  his  duty. 
Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  in  this  fray  he  shot  many 
a  fire-tipped  dart  straight  to  the  mark.  No  other 
American  poet  enlisted  his  sympathies  and  powers 
so  unreservedly  in  this  great  struggle.  Even 
Lowell,  with  his  fervid  patriotism,  can  hardly  be 
regarded  a  close  second.  Small  wonder,  then,  that 
the  Quaker  poet  by  universal  consent  was  voted  the 


306  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

laureate  of  the  emancipation  movement,  which  he 
soon  saw  sweep  to  its  full  consummation. 

In  1857  appeared  a  complete  collection  of  Whit- 
tier's  poems,  called  the  "Blue  and  the  Gold"  edition. 
This  same  year  is  also  notable  in  our  author's  career 
as  the  year  in  which  our  foremost  literary  journal — 
The  Atlantic  Monthly — was  founded,  and  Whittier 
was  urgently  solicited,  among  other  leading  Ameri- 
can men  of  letters,  to  contribute  to  its  columns. 
This  public  recognition  of  Whittier's  gift  of  song 
was,  his  biographers  tell  us,  a  source  of  unfeigned 
pleasure  and  appreciation  to  him ;  and  he  responded 
generously,  contributing  his  fine  poem  "The  Gift  of 
Tritemius"  to  the  initial  number.  He  made  the 
columns  of  this  magazine,  as  previously  stated,  the 
medium  for  his  best  work  during  the  period  of  1857- 
70.  His  connection  with  this  monthly,  it  is  inter- 
esting to  note  in  passing,  incidentally  presented 
Whittier  with  an  opportunity  which  he  gladly  ac- 
cepted, of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  recognized 
literati  of  New  England. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  war  Whittier  published  a 
collection  of  poems,  under  the  title  "In  War  Time," 
and  this  success  he  followed  up  the  next  year,  when 
his  collection  of  "National  Lyrics"  appeared.  Of 
the  former  poems  "Barbara  Frietchie"  is  the  most 
widely  known.  Though  based  upon  an  incorrect 
newspaper  report  of  the  incident  which  inspired 
this  song,  "Barbara  Frietchie"  is  a  beautiful  lyric 
and  fairly  glows  with  patriotism.  It  has  taken 
firm  hold  upon  the  popular  imagination  and  is  a 
favorite  with  anthologists.  When  the  cause  which 
lay  so  near  Whittier's  heart  became  an  accomplished 
fact,  his  muse  relaxed  somewhat  its  strenuous  office 
and  the  bard  now  came  to  consider  himself  "the 
idle  singer  of  an  empty  day."  It  was  at  this  period 
when  the  poet  was  beginning  to  enjoy  relief  from 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  307 

the  strain  and  stress  he  had  borne  for  many  years 
that  he  produced  his  famous  "Snow-Bound,"  hark- 
ing bark  to  (he  familiar  scenes  of  his  boyhood  for 
its  inspiration.  The  success  of  this  poem,  generally 
conceded  to  be  its  author's  masterpiece,  was  imme- 
diate and  generous,  and  stamped  Whittier  as  a 
national  poet.  Burroughs,  himself  no  mean  au- 
thority on  nature- writing,  claims  that  "Snow- 
Bound"  is  the  most  faithful  picture  of  our  northern 
winter  that  has  yet  been  put  into  poetry.  By  virtue 
of  its  genuine  merit  this  "Winter  Idyl"  (if  one  may 
use  the  sub-title)  is  worthy  to  rank  in  the  class  with 
"Evangeline,"  the  "Biglow  Papers"  and  "The  Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night."  It  is  an  artistic  production 
and  its  sentiment  and  melody  appeal  to  all.  The 
sexagenarian  bard,  the  critics  are  agreed,  never 
again  quite  equaled  the  standard  he  attained  in 
this  sweet  idyl  of  his  childhood. 

Whittier's  lyre  continued  active  till  the  very  sun- 
set of  his  life,  ever  and  anon  giving  tangible  proof 
of  his  activity  in  such  collections  of  song  as  "The 
Tent  on  the  Beach,"  "Among  the  Hills,"  "The 
King's  Missive"  and  "At  Sundown."  But  this 
enumeration  is  far  from  complete.  A  pathetic  in- 
terest attaches  to  the  collection  entitled  "At  Sun- 
down." It  was  Whittier's  swan-song  and  was  pub- 
lished in  1892,  when  the  shadows  of  evening  were 
gathering  thick  and  fast  about  the  bard.  This  col- 
lection furnishes  unimpeachable  evidence  that  the 
octogenarian  singer  still  retained  his  mastery  of  the 
lyre  and  that  age  had  not  impaired  his  touch  or 
dulled  his  ear.  But  the  singer's  voice  was  soon  to 
be  stilled.  He  survived  the  publication  of  "At  Sun- 
down" only  a  few  months,  the  end  coming  some- 
what unexpectedly.  In  the  early  summer  of  1892 
Whittier  had  gone  to  Hampton  Falls,  New  Hamp- 
shire, to  remain  till  autumn.  He  had  been  there 


308  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

only  a  short  while,  however,  before  he  was  taken  ill. 
He  died  on  the  seventh  of  September,  after  a  linger- 
ing illness,  and  his  body  was  buried  in  the  pictur- 
esque Friends'  burying  ground  at  Amesbury,  by  the 
side  of  his  beloved  mother  and  sister. 

Whittier's  latter  years,  though  he  could  hardly 
claim  to  have  a  local  habitation  in  the  sense  of  a 
home,  after  the  death  of  his  favorite  sister,  were 
yet  not  entirely  unhappy.  There  was  some  compen- 
sation to  mitigate  and  alleviate  the  depressing  bur- 
den of  his  bereavement.  The  liberal  sale  of  his 
books  had  completely  removed  the  pinch  of  poverty 
which  he  had  experienced  during  his  early  life. 
Besides,  he  enjoyed  the  satisfaction  and  comfort  of 
knowing  that  he  had  hosts  of  admiring  friends 
throughout  the  whole  country  who  delighted  to 
honor  him  and  rejoiced  in  his  friendship.  By  his 
unswerving  purpose  and  at  the  cost  of  unflagging 
application  he  had  at  last  achieved  an  enviable,  if 
not  a  brilliant,  success  in  American  letters,  and 
now  in  his  old  age  he  stood  out  in  the  public  eye 
as  a  conspicuous  example  of  that  praiseworthy  pro- 
duct, the  self-made  man.  Educational  institutions 
were  not  slow  to  recognize  his  noble  effort  and  ac- 
complishment, and  Brown  and  Harvard,  notably, 
lavished  their  academic  honors  upon  him.  These 
tokens  of  regard  could  not,  of  course,  have  been 
without  influence  to  assuage  the  bitterness  of  his 
latter  years. 

But  it  is  time  to  attempt  some  critical-  estimate 
of  Whittier  as  a  man  of  letters.  To  begin  with,  it 
may  be  premised  that  we  shall  consider  our  author 
only  as  a  poet.  WhittieiVs  prose  is  really  a  neg- 
ligible quantity.  It  is  not  above  mediocrity,  has 
lit  tie  to  commend  it  and  has  therefore  fallen  into 
oblivion.  The  author  himself  never  intended  or 
hoped  to  win  for  himself  a  lasting  reputation  by 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WIIITTIER  309 

his  prose.  He  relied  upon  his  poetry  to  perpetuate 
his  name  in  the  republic  of  letters,  and  time  has 
vindicated  his  confidence. 

It  is  obvious  to  the  student  of  Whittier's  verse 
that  the  bent  of  his  genuis  was  toward  the  ballad. 
He  gave  unmistakable  indication  of  this  in  his  early 
ballad  "Cassandra  Southwick,"  as  well  as  in  his 
other  legendary  ballads.  These  ballads  reveal  in 
their  author  the  metrical  instinct.  His  later  bal- 
lads are  even  more  significant  as  indicating  Whit- 
tier's  varying  excellence  and  wide  range  of  theme. 
Of  these,  "Maud  Muller,"  "Telling  the  Bees"  and 
"Skipper  Ireson's  Ride"  may  be  mentioned  as  en- 
during favorites  and  deservedly  popular.  They  are 
unique  of  their  kind  of  verse  and  are  unsurpassed 
in  American  song.  Whittier  scored  no  small  tri- 
umph in  his  favorite  role  of  a  bucolic  poet  who 
portrayed  in  sincere,  ingenuous  verse  and  with  en- 
viable skill  and  effect  the  simple  pastoral  life  of 
the  Merrimac  valley.  While  such  lyrics  do  not 
reveal,  it  must  be  admitted,  that  intellectual  insight 
and  that  depth  of  feeling  which  are  invariably  as- 
sociated with  poetry  of  the  first  water,  still  it  is 
these  familiar  household  songs  that  have  contrib- 
uted much  to  confirm  Whittier's  reputation  ana  to 
establish  more  thoroughly  his  claim  as  the  poet  of 
the  people.  Certainly  no  other  American  has  so 
good  a  claim  to  this  distinction  as  the  Quaker  bard. 
For  his  verse  more  than  that  of  any  other  of  our 
singers  is  plain,  simple,  artless,  homely  and  vigor- 
ous, and  smacks  of  the  soil. 

Another  secret  of  Whittier's  hold  upon  the  esteem 
and  affection  of  his  countrymen  is  found  in  the 
spiritual  nature  of  his  poetry.  In  his  uplifting 
spiritual  lays  he  exhibits  a  religious  aspect  of  his 
nature  which  commends  him  strongly  to  the  love 
and  favor  of  the  common  people.  Whittier  was,  no 


310  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

doubt,  a  good  and  pure  man,  and  his  deep  piety 
found  appropriate  expression  in  those  beautiful 
sacred  lyrics  with  which  he  has  enriched  American 
song.  Some  of  our  hymn-book  compilers  have 
shown  their  good  taste  by  incorporating  a  few  of 
Whittier's  exquisite  sacred  melodies  into  their 
hymnals.  These  melodies  are  restrained,  dignified 
and  inspiring  and  unquestionably  conduce  to 
pensive  musing  and  pious  meditation.  Where  can 
you  find  in  American  literature  a  more  exquisite 
ode  of  the  kind  than  Whittier's  "Eternal  Good- 
ness"? Some  of  the  verses  of  this  sweet  lyric  have 
sung  themselves  into  the  heart  of  the  nation  and 
are  as  familiar  almost  as  the  twenty-third  Psalm 
or  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

Whittier's  patriotic  poetry  was  a  notable  element 
of  his  contemporaneous  popularity.  His  verse  was 
nothing  if  not  patriotic.  In  this  aspect  of  his  muse 
he  is  unapproached.  To  be  sure,  this  species  of 
poetry  is  not  the  highest  type,  but  it  appeals 
mightily  to  the  affections  of  the  people,  who 
naturally  have  a  warm  spot  in  their  heart  for  such 
a  singer.  The  cause  which  inspired  most  of  Whit- 
tier's  patriotic  poetry  lay  very  near  his  heart  and 
was  with  him  a  passion  as  well  as  a  purpose.  When 
he  attuned  his  lyre  to  the  theme  of  home  and 
country,  he  poured  out  his  heart  in  impassioned 
song.  But  much  of  his  patriotic  verse  had  as  its 
theme  the  anti-slavery  agitation,  and  that  is  now  a 
thing  of  the  past,  as  is  most  of  the  poetry  which  it 
called  forth.  This  class  of  poetry  is  designated  by 
the  critics  as  "occasional"  and  lacks,  for  the  most 
part,  those  qualities  that  make  for  permanence  and 
immortality.  No  portion  of  Whittier's  poetry  now 
seems  more  flat  and  jejune  than  his  miscellaneous 
poems  which  h;i<l  flicir  mixun  </'  rlrc  in  the  anti- 
slavery  agitation;  and  there  are  but  few  grains  of 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  311 

gold  in  this  profusion  of  dross.  This  ephemeral 
verse  probably  fulfilled  its  author's  design.  But  it 
is  now  relegated  to  the  linibo  of  oblivion,  since  it 
did  not  possess  the  elements  of  verse  that  are  per- 
manent and  abiding.  '• 

\Yhiltier  was  a  gifted  singer,  but  he  was  not  an 
artist.  His  facility  was  his  besetting  sin.  Like 
most  facile  writers  he  refused  to  prune  down  suf- 
ficiently the  products  of  his  genius.  Consequently 
he  has  suffered  not  a  little  in  reputation.  He  sacri- 
ficed art  and  technique  to  his  "fatal  facility,"  with 
the  result  that  a  considerable  part  of  his  poetic 
output  is  very  slightly  removed  from  inane  effusions 
—mere  verbiage.  Even  his  best  verse  is  sadly 
marred  by  a  surplusage  of  words  which  the  reader 
must  work  through  before  he  arrives  at  the  golden 
grain.  Relying  on  his  innate  gift  of  melody,  Whit- 
tier  gave  but  scant  attention  to  the  art  of  poetry,  to 
technique.  Some  of  his  poems  sin  egregiously 
against  the  canons  of  art  and  good  taste.  Moreover, 
his  ear  was  untrustworthy  and  failed  to  detect  the 
false  rhymes  of  his  hasty  composition ;  and  too  fre- 
quently he  foisted  upon  an  eager  and  indulgent 
public  rhymes  that  are  simply  atrocious.  Whittier 
was  too  sparing  of  the  labor  of  the  file  and  gave  too 
little  care  to  the  finish  and  polish  of  his  verses. 
This  criticism  does  not  apply,  of  course,  to  a  few  of 
his  finer  lyrics,  which  rival  even  Bryant's  verse  in 
artistic  finish. 

But  despite  the  palpable  blemishes  and  the  mani- 
fest incompleteness  of  his  poetry,  Whittier  is  con- 
ceded, in  the  judgment  of  the  most  discriminating 
critics,  to  be  entitled  to  a  prominent  place  in  the 
Valhalla  of  American  poets.  His  song  is  fraught 
with  a  deep  and  tender  spiritual  message  reinforced 
by  the  singer's  inborn  love  of  righteousness  and  by 
his  noble,  true,  and  pure  life  that  compelled  adinira- 


31 2  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

tion  even  from  those  out  and  out  opposed  to  his 
activity  in  the  abolition  movement.  It  is  just  this 
union  of  a  high  moral  purpose  with  his  natural 
lyric  gift  that  explains  in  large  measure  the  secret 
of  the  honor  universally  accorded  the  Quaker  poet 
in  his  latter  days,  and  the  popular  favor  which  he 
enjoys  now  at  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury. Whittier  will  always  live  in  American  litera- 
ture as  the  poet  of  the  hearth  and  home,  the  singer 
who  by  his  instinctive  lyric  utterance  has  trans- 
formed the  commonplace  things  and  experiences  of 
e very-day  life  into  poetry  of  genuine  melody  and 
beauty. 


WHITTIER 
MAUD   MULLER 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his-  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 


4 

314  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"Thanks!"  said  the  Judge;  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me! 
That  I  the  Judge's  t)ride  might  be ! 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF    WllITTIKIl  315 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  sho  were  mine,  and  I,  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay : 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms. 


316  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  log, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been." 


JOHN   GREENLEAP   WHITTIER  317 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these :   "It  might  have  been !" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA 

[A  letter-writer  from  Mexico  during  the  Mexican  war,  when 
detailing  some  of  the  incidents  at  the  terrible  fight  of  Buena 
Vista,  mentioned  that  Mexican  women  were  seen  hovering 
near  the  field  of  death,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  aid  and  suc- 
cor to  the  wounded.  One  poor  woman  was  found  surrounded 
by  the  maimed  and  suffering  of  both  armies,  ministering  to 
the  wants  of  Americans  as  well  as  Mexicans  with  impartial 
tenderness.] 


Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far 

away, 

O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they  far  or  come 

they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm 

we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle 

rolls; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy  on 

their  souls !" 


318  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  "Over  hill  and  over 
plain, 

I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  moun- 
tain rain." 

Holy  Mother !  keep  our  brothers !  Look,  Ximena,  look 
once  more. 

"Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  be- 
fore, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman, 
foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down 
its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Ah!  the  smoke  has 

rolled  away; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks 

of  gray. 
Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop  of 

Minon  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at 

their  heels. 

" Jesu,  pity !  how  it  thickens !  now  retreat  and  now  ad- 
vance ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers-  Puebla's 
charging  lance! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot 
together  fall ; 

Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs 
the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on! 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and 

who  has  won? 

"Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:  pray,  my  sisters,  for 

them  all ! 


JOHN    <;i;i:i:.\Li:.\F    WIIITTIKK  319 

"Lo!  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting.  Ulessod  Mother, 
save  my  brain  ! 

1  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps 
of  slain. 

Now  they  staler,  blind  and  bleeding;  now  they  fall, 
and  strive  to  rise; 

Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  be- 
fore our  eyes ! 

"O  my  heart's  love!  O  my  dear  one!  lay  thy  poor  head 

on  my  knee ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst  thou 

hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!  O  my  Bernal,  look 

once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee !     Mercy !  mercy !  all  is 

o'er!" 


Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down 

to  rest; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his 

breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses 

said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a 

soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow 

his  life  away; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol  belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away 

her  head; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon 

her  dead ; 


320  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  strug- 
gling breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips 
again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and 
faintly  smiled; 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch  be- 
side her  child  ? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's 
heart  supplied; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "Mother !"  murmured 
he,  and  died! 

"A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in 

the  North!" 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with 

her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds 

which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Like  a  cloud  before 

the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and 

death  behind ; 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the  dust  the 

wounded  strive; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels!     O  thou  Christ  of  God, 

forgive !" 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains !  let  the  cool,  gray 

shadows  fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over 

all! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the 

battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips 

grew  cold. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  321 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pur- 
sued, 

Through  that  lon<r,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and 
faint  and  larking  food. 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care 
they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and 
Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of  ours; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh 

the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send 

their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our 

air! 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time. 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred^and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 


322  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"Here  's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Monads  sang: 

"Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

Small  pity  for  him! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck! 
"Lay  by !  lay  by !"  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !" 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  soa, 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away? — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 


JOHN  (;KI:I:NU:.\F  WIIITTIKI;  323 

Through  the  si  root,  on  either  side, 

Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 

Shjirp-tonguod  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 

Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray, 

Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 

Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 

Shook  head,  and  list,  and  hat,  and  cane, 

And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an*  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  field*  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 

Hiding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 

Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 

Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here  's-  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors !"  at  last  he  cried, — 

"What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 

What  is  the  shame  that  clothes-  the  skin 

To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 

And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 

Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 

The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead !" 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him !  why  should  we !" 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !" 


324  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 
JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

More  than  a  decade  of  years  have  gone  by  since 
James  Russell  Lowell,  the  foremost  of  American 
men  of  letters,  passed  away.  His  death  naturally 
called  forth  numerous  expressions  of  sincere  appre- 
ciation, from  writers  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
both  as  to  his  character  and  as  to  his  works.  The 
English  were  no  less  generous  in  their  glowing  trib- 
utes to  his  memory  as  a  man  and  an  author  than 
were  the  Americans,  whom  he  so  strongly  loved  and 
who  reciprocated  that  love.  No  doubt  the  personal 
element  prompted  and  entered  into  the  encomiums, 
written  by  those  who,  in  the  rude  shock  of  death, 
could  not  but  record  their  keen  personal  loss  in  the 
passing  of  a  warm,  true  friend. 

Time  is  needed  to  heal  the  wounds  our  friendship 
has  to  sustain  in  the  death  of  those  whom  we  have 
learned  to  love  and  to  admire.  The  heart  is  too 
profoundly  agitated  at  the  death  of  a  true  friend 
for  the  intellect  to  weigh  critically  and  pass  judg- 
ment upon  the  literary  merits  of  that  friend.  Time 
must  intervene  to  heal  our  wounded  affections  and 
to  separate  us  sufficiently  far  from  his  day,  before 
we  can  trust  our  judgments  to  render  an  unbiased 
verdict  upon  his  standing  in  the  realm  of  letters. 
Moreover,  in  the  words  of  an  author  there  is  gen- 
erally something,  often  much,  which  is  of  an 
ephemeral  character;  and  with  the  lapse  of  time 
all  that  is  transient  and  of  passing  interest  tends 
to  be  sifted  and  winnowed  out,  so  that  only  what  is 
of  permanent  value  finally  remains.  Such  being  the 


326  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

case,  we  may  hope  now,  over  a  decade  after  Lowell 
has  been  in  his  grave,  to  consider  dispassionately 
and  to  form  something  of  a  critical  estimate  of  this 
gifted,  versatile  American  as  a  man  of  letters. 

It  is  not  proposed  here  to  give  a  detailed  account 
of  Lowell's  life,  or  indeed  to  consider  his  life  at  all, 
except  incidentally  where  it  throws  light  upon  his 
work  as  an  author.  It  may  be  observed,  however, 
that  he  was  born  at  Cambridge  in  1819,  of  good 
Puritan  stock,  and  that  the  Puritan  teachings  were 
woven  into  the  very  fiber  and  tissue  of  his  being. 
His  life  was  pure  and  sweet.  Nor  did  it,  like  the 
life  of  such  a  poet  as  Byron  or  Shelley,  stand  in 
need  of  any  "biographical  chemistry  to  bleach  out 
any  dark  spots  in  his  character."  Lowell's  father 
and  grandfather  were  both  ministers  of  the  gospel; 
and  his  mother  was  a  gifted  woman,  well  versed  in 
English  literature  and  acquainted  with  several 
foreign  languages.  From  her,  doubtless,  young 
Lowell,  like  the  great  German  poet  Goethe,  inher- 
ited his  passion  for  song  and  letters.  From  his 
father  he  inherited  his  broad  culture,  his  sturdy 
character,  his  moral  fervor,  and  his  Puritan  love  of 
righteousness.  This  combination  of  qualities  which 
Lowell  united  in  himself  conspired  to  make  him,  as 
has  been  truly  said,  one  of  the  prophets  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  the  Milton  of  his  times. 

Lowell  was  a  born  scholar.  Even  while  a  student 
at  Harvard  he  showed  a  decided  penchant  for  litera- 
ture. His  subsequent  career  as  the  most  brilliant 
critic  that  American  scholarship  has  produced  is 
but  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  promise  of  his  early 
years.  As  a  student,  he  preferred  to  follow  the  bent 
of  his  genius  rather  than  the  college  curriculum 
which  the  Harvard  authorities  had  prescribed;  and 
so,  at  his  graduation  in  1838,  he  was  under  disci- 
pline for  breach  of  order,  when  he  delivered  the 


.!  A.MKS   RUSSELL    LOWKLL  327 

class  poem.  After  graduation  lie  studied  law,  but, 
like  not  a  few  other  young  lawyers,  soon  found  it 
uncongenial  to  his  literary  taste:  he  therefore  aban- 
doned the  law,  and  came  shortly  to  be  numbered 
a mon»:  the  votaries  of  the  muses.  His  first  offering 
upon  their  altar  was  a  slender  volume  of  poetry, 
published  in  1841, which  he  entitled  "A Year's  Life." 
This  graceful  little  volume  was  dedicated  to  "Una," 
who  first  awakened  in  him  the  gift  of  song  and  then 
became  his  companion.  The  author  afterwards  re- 
ferred to  these  early  poems  as  the  "firstlings  of  his 
muse,  the  poor  windfalls  of  unripe  experience.1* 
When  he  gave  to  the  public  the  standard  collection 
of  his  "Early  Poems,"  the  book  was  found  to  con- 
tain a  few  of  the  choicer  songs,  culled  from  "A 
Year's  Life." 

In  these  early  poems  the  poet  shows  traces  of  the 
influence  of  Tennyson  and  Shelley.  His  sonnets  to 
Wordsworth  and  Keats  indicate  also  that  he  had 
been  browsing  on  these  high  table-lands  of  poetry. 
It  is  especially  interesting  to  note  that,  as  a  youth, 
Lowell  was  brought  up  on  Pope,  "in  the  old  super- 
stition," to  quote  his  own  words,  "that  he  was  the 
greatest  poet  that  ever  lived."  But  he  early  broke 
with  Pope,  and  repudiated  his  claim  to  the  primacy 
in  the  republic  of  letters.  Conventional  verse  of  the 
drawing-room  type  had  lost  its  charm  for  young 
Lowell,  who  now  turned  to  the  fields  of  beauty  and 
romance,  to  fresh  outdoor  subjects,  for  his  inspira- 
tion. These  early  poems  are  immature,  it  is  true, 
but  they  reveal  the  presence  of  a  deep  vein  of  poetic 
wealth  which  was  destined  to  be  improved  and 
developed  with  increasing  years.  It  is  to  be  ob- 
served in  passing  that  even  in  this  early  collection, 
"the  first  heir  of  his  invention,"  Lowell  sounded  in 
his  sonnets  to  Phillips  and  Giddings  the  anti-slav- 
ery note,  which  later  swelled  into  a  veritable  trum- 


328  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

pet  blast  in  the  "Biglow  Papers"  and  other  pa- 
triotic poems  of  the  author's.  But  of  this  more 
anon. 

Passing  over  Lowell's  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
found  The  Pioneer,  a  literary  journal  of  brilliant, 
though  short-lived  fame;  and  leaving  out  of  con- 
sideration his  poem  of  the  "Legend  of  Brittany," 
which  Poe  said  was  "the  noblest  poem  yet  written 
by  an  American,"  we  come  to  his  little  idyl 
"Khcecus,"  as  beautiful  as  it  is  artistic,  and  to  the 
"Poems"  of  1848,  which  established  Lowell's  repu- 
tation as  a  poet  of  original  genius,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  All  his  former  efforts,  though  by  no  means 
insignificant  as  indicating  the  rise  of  a  new  star  in 
the  poetic  heavens,  were  eclipsed  by  the  luster  of 
this  collection.  This  book  was  the  logical  outcome 
of  the  author's  wholesome  dread  of  dilettanteism 
and  affectation,  to  which,  as  to  a  luring  temp- 
tation, many  a  promising  young  author  has 
fallen  victim.  No  poet,  perhaps,  ever  felt  more 
sensibly  the  siren  power  of  dilettanteism  than  did 
Lowell ;  and  he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  escape  from 
it.  To  the  execution  of  this  purpose,  on  his  part, 
the  "Biglow  Papers,"  the  "Fable  for  Critics,"  and 
"Sir  Launfal"  stand  to-day  indebted  for  their  exist- 
ence. In  these  poems  Lowell  made  a  distinct  de- 
parture from  the  well-beaten  path  of  current  poetic 
fashion;  and  he  achieved  a  notable  triumph.  Yea, 
he  did  more:  he  added  something  entirely  unique 
and  original  to  the  literature  of  his  day.  For  noth- 
ing like  the  "Biglow  Papers"  had  ever  been  pro- 
duced before  in  America,  or  anywhere  else,  for  that 
matter.  Lowell  blazed  out  three  new  paths  in 
American  literature :  first,  political  satire,  as  in  the 
"Hi glow  Papers";  secondly,  literary  criticism,  as  in 
the  "Fable  for  Critics";  and  thirdly,  romantic  and 
religious  sentiment,  as  in  "Sir  Launfal."  And  in 


.1  AMKS   RUSSELL   LOWELL  329 

each  of  these  fields  he  scored  a  decisive  and  imme- 
diate success. 

First,  as  to  the  "Biglow  Papers."  Nothing  like 
these  had  ever  been  attempted  before;  nothing  equal 
to  them  has  ever  been  produced  since.  In  them 
Lowell's  genius  has  caught  and  portrayed  with  re- 
markable vividness  and  vigor  the  spirit  of  that 
sturdy  Yankee  character  which,  in  a  certain  sense, 
is  the  salt  and  the  peculiar  product  of  Puritan  New 
England.  The  first  series  (for  there  are  two  series 
of  these  papers)  sets  forth  the  feelings,  as  to  the 
invasion  of  Mexico,  of  that  intelligent  party  of  the 
minority  in  New  England  as  faithfully  and  fully  as 
it  reflects  the  Yankee  character  in  its  coarse  shrewd- 
ness, its  keen  wit,  its  dry  humor,  and  its  plain, 
homespun  English.  The  "Papers'7  showed,  more- 
over, the  moral  stamina  of  their  author — his  Puri- 
tan inheritance — in  giving  expression,  in  such  a 
bold  manner,  to  the  feelings  of  his  party,  then 
largely  in  the  minority.  Aside  from  the  realistic 
portrayal  of  the  Yankee  character,  the  book  had 
much  to  commend  it  as  a  work  of  art.  "Never 
sprang  the  flower  of  art/7  as  Stedman  truly  ob- 
serves,"f roru  a  more  unpromising  soil ;  and  yet  these 
are  eclogues  as  true  as  those  of  Theocritus  or 
Burns.77  The  wide-reaching  success  the  "Papers" 
met  with  was  marvelous.  Nothing  before  in  the 
history  of  American  literature,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  Poe's  "Raven,77  had  equaled  the  en- 
thusiastic reception  accorded  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow's 
reflections.  Lowell  leaped  at  once  into  fame  as  sud- 
denly as  Byron  with  the  publication  of  "Childe  Har- 
old,77 or  Poe  with  his  "Kaven.77  The  shrewd  Yankee 
common  sense,  combined  with  the  keen  wit  and 
breezy  humor,  sent  the  satire  cutting  straight  to  the 
mark ;  and  many  a  trimmer  and  temporizer  in  New 
England,  when  they  discovered  that  they  were  made 


330  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

the  butt  of  ridicule,  must  have  winced  under  the 
shafts  of  that  ridicule.  Strange  to  say,  these 
"Papers"  won  for  their  author  a  reputation  as  a 
humorist — a  reputation  not  confined  to  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic.  Indeed,  it  was  these  "Papers"  that 
first  won  for  Lowell  a  name  in  England  and  bespoke 
for  him  a  warm  place  in  the  heart  of  the  English 
people  when  he  was  appointed  our  Minister  at  the 
Court  of  St.  James. 

The  "Biglow  Papers"  furnish  the  best  political 
satire  that  American  literature  has  produced.  In- 
deed, English  literature  has  produced  nothing  su- 
perior to  their  satire  since  the  days  of  Swift  and 
Butler.  Lowell's  satiric  poetry,  but  for  its  dialect, 
might  be  rated  above  Dryden's,  which  it  surpasses 
both  in  range*  and  variety  of  style.  Of  course,  it  is 
not  to  be  taken  as  giving  a  true  picture  of  the  times. 
It  is  characteristic  of  political  satire  to  exaggerate 
the  facts  and  to  misrepresent  men,  and  Mr.  Biglow's 
crude  verses  form  no  exception  to  the  rule.  His 
soul  was  deeply  stirred  by  the  injustice  of  the  Mexi- 
can war  and  by  the  cant  of  the  party  that  attempted 
to  justify  it;  and  he  was  as  severe  and  unrelenting 
in  satirizing  the  North  as  the  South.  Witness  his 
outburst  of  intense  wrath  against  Massachusetts  in 
his  first  poem : 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She's  a-kneelin?  with  the  rest, 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest ; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearlr-s 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world ! 

Surely,  every  true  son  of  the  old  Bay  State,  the 
hotbed  of  abolitionism,  must  have  been  profoundly 


.JAM  MS    UrSSKLL    LOWKLL  331 

stirred  by  these  lines.  The  political  el'1'ect  of  such 
lines,  as  might  be  expected,  was  great  and  imme- 
diate in  crystalli/ing  anti-slavery  sentiment  in  Xe\v 
England.  'Lowell  did  not  himself  comprehend  the 
influence  his  verses  exerted.  In  the  preface  to  the 
second  series  of  the  "JJiglow  Tapers"  he  says  with 
reference  to  this : 

The  success  of  my  experiment  soon  began  not  only 
to  astonish  me,  but  to  make  me  feel  the  responsibility 
of  knowing  that  I  held  in  my  hand  a  weapon,  instead 
of  (he  mere  fencing-stick  1  had  supposed.  Very  far 
from  being  a  popular  ant  hoi-  under  my  own  name,  so 
far,  indeed,  as  to  bo  almost  unread,  I  found  the  verses 
of  my  pseudonym  copied  everywhere;  I  saw  them  pinned 
np  in  workshops;  I  heard  them  quoted  and  their 
authorship  debated;  I  once  even,  when  rumor  had  at 
length  caught  up  my  name  in  one  of  its  eddies,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  overhearing  it  demonstrated,  in  the 
pauses  of  a  concert,  that  /  was  utterly  incompetent 
to  have  written  anything  of  the  kind. 

But  enough  of  the  "Biglow  Papers"  for  the  pres- 
ent. The  second  achievement  in  verse  that  Lowell 
won,  in  1848,  was  the  "Fable  for  Critics."  This 
clever  poem  was  probably  inspired  by  Pope's  ex- 
ample. It  was  not,  however,  conceived  in  that  spirit 
of  rancor  and  ill-will  that  prompted  the  scathing, 
drastic  satire  of  the  famous  Queen  Anne  wit. 
Lo well's  satire  was  mere  banter;  it  had  no  enven- 
omed sting,  and  did  not  deserve  the  sharp  attack 
which  Poe  made  upon  its  author.  It  was  intended 
merely  as  a  mild  satiric  poem  to  hit  off  the  art  and 
manner  of  the  contemporary  bards,  Lowell  himself 
included.  The  author's  characterization  of  his  own 
art  and  method,  while  not  comprehensive,  still  re- 
veals a  considerable  measure  of  intuitive  insight 
and  critical  analysis.  The  interest  of  the  poem  is 


332  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

not  well  sustained,  though  showing  here  and  there 
a  nice  appreciation  of  his  contemporaries'  merits. 
The  parts  are  not  compactly  joined  together;  and 
the  poem,  as  a  whole,  shows  marks  of  rather  care- 
less workmanship,  especially  in  the  versification. 
Yet,  with  all  its  defects,  the  "Fable  for  Critics"  is 
a  very  clever  jeu  d'  esprit,  and  as  good  as  anything 
of  its  kind  done  before  in  America. 

The  poem  of  really  high  literary  merit  which 
Lowell  published  in  1848  was  the  "Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal."  Here  the  poet,  though  only  thirty, 
touched  a  note  which  he  hardly  surpassed  in  his 
maturest  years.  (Indeed,  it  is  quite  remarkable 
that  work  of  such  high  order  as  that  we  have  been 
considering  should  have  been  done  by  a  man  of  only 
thirty.)  There  is  a  tradition  that  Lowell  dashed 
off  this  beautiful  poem  in  the  brief  period  of  forty- 
eight  hours,  during  which  time  he  was  in  a  kind  of 
poetic  ecstasy.  The  theme  is  that  of  the  search  for 
the  Holy  Grail,  rendered  already  familiar  through 
its  frequent  treatment  by  artist  and  poet  alike.  We 
need  not  pause  to  analyze  the  poem  or  to  comment 
on  the  poet's  handling  of  his  subject,  "Sir  Launfal" 
is  so  familiar  to  us  all.  It  may  be  said,  however,  in 
passing,  that  the  disproportionately  long  prelude 
appears  to  many  critics  as  an  artistic  blemish,  but 
it  does  not  materially  mar  the  beauty  of  the  poem. 
In  it  are  found  some  of  Lowell's  best  lines,  a  few  of 
which  have  passed  into  household  words ;  as, 

"And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?" 

In  this  poem,  too,  the  author  gives  unmistakable 
evidence  of  his  ardent  love  of  nature,  which 
amounted  almost  to  a  passion  with  him.  It  per- 
meates all  that  he  wrote,  prose  as  well  as  poetry. 
Indeed,  some  critics  think  that  "Sir  Launfal"  owes 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL  333 

its  charm  and  beauty  qtiile  as  much  to  the  glowing 
feeling  for  nature  which  pervades  the  entire  poem 
as  to  its  legendary  religious  theme. 

But  Lowell  was  not  only  a  poet.  Nor  did  he 
strive  to  force  always  into  poetic  form  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  thai  Hashed  through  his  mind.  He  was 
also  a  critic  and  an  essayist,  and  the  practitioner 
of  an  excellent  prose  style,  which  has  not  been  sur- 
passed, if  indeed  it  has  been  equaled,  by  any  other 
American  man  of  letters.  His  essays  and  critiques 
have  contributed  no  less  to  his  fame  than  his  poetry 
has.  He  was  above  all  things  a  scholar,  and  filled 
with  rare  grace  and  exceptional  ability  the  chair  at 
Harvard,  formerly  occupied  by  Longfellow.  He 
lived  all  his  life  long  surrounded  by  books,  and 
moved  in  a  scholarly  atmosphere.  It  was  as  editor 
of  the  two  leading  American  literary  magazines,  the 
Atlantic  and  the  North  American  Review,  that  he 
wrote  and  published  most  of  his  essays  on  literature 
and  life.  These  charming  essays  he  afterwards 
collected  and  published  under  the  titles,  "Among 
My  Books"  (two  series),  "Fireside  Travels,"  and 
"My  Study  Windows,"  making  four  volumes.  Low- 
ell's first  prose  volume,  "Conversations  on  Some 
of  the  Old  Poets,"  appeared  in  1844 ;  and,  while  not 
showing  any  great  critical  acumen,  the  book  is  yet 
replete  with  remarks  which  give  evidence  of  genuine 
appreciation  of  literature.  The  young  poet  was 
only  beginning  to  feel  his  way  along  as  a  critic  of 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  He  had  not  yet 
attained  that  sureness  of  touch  and  mastery  of  his 
art  which,  like  a  skillful  musician,  he  makes  us 
instinctively  feel  in  his  later  essays.  In  these  he 
speaks  as  one  having  authority,  as  one  having  a  de- 
reloped,  critical  faculty  which  discerns  with  an  un- 
erring judgment  and  literary  taste  the  weaknesses 
and  excellencies  alike  in  an  author.  His  fondness 


334  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

for  literature,  which  he  had  exhibited  even  in  his 
callow  days,  had  now  ripened  into  a  rare  and  broad 
scholarship,  which  was  by  no  means  confined  to 
English,  but  embraced  the  leading  Continental  lan- 
guages as  well.  He  could  write  with  equal  grace 
and  erudition,  no  matter  whether  the  subject  of  his 
essay  was  Chaucer,  Lessing,  Rosseau,  or  Dante.  His 
register,  to  use  a  musical  term,  was  unusually 
good;  and  the  range  of  his  essays  embraced  a  rich 
selection  of  authors,  showing  his  familiarity  not 
only  with  English  literature  in  all  its  periods,  but 
also  with  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  German. 
In  addition  to  his  critical  essays,  Lowell  wrote  with 
a  glamour  rivaled  only  by  Lamb,  upon  such  topics 
as  "A  Good  Word  for  Winter/'  and  "A  Certain 
Condescension  in  Foreigners,"  etc. 

Dr.  Johnson,  the  great  Cham,  said  of  Addison, 
the  prince  of  essayists,  that  he  never  touched  any- 
thing with  his  pen  that  he  did  not  adorn  it.  The 
same  may,  with  equal  propriety,  be  said  of  Lowell. 
Not  that  Lowell  and  Addison  have  the  same  style 
or  the  same  manner  of  expressing  an  idea.  They 
have  not;  nor  is  Lowell's  style  modeled  after  the 
Addisonian  school.  But  Lowell  possesses  something 
of  the  same  attractive  manner,  something  of  the 
same  felicity  of  expression,  and  very  much  the  same 
indefinable  charm.  He  lacks,  however,  Addison's 
lightness  of  touch  and  airiness. 

In  1865  Lowell  gave  the  public  the  second  series 
of  his  "Biglow  Papers."  This,  like  the  first  series, 
\\as  inspired  by  war.  It  was;  called  into  being  by 
the  author's  reflections  upon  the  causes  which 
brought  on  the  Civil  War.  Here  his  voice  again 
rang  out  like  a  shrill  clarion  in  behalf  of  the  anti- 
slavery  cause,  and  he  threw  himself  into  the  strug- 
gle \\ilh  all  the  moral  fervor  and  earnestness  of  a 
true  patriot.  That  he  was  partisan  goes  without 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  335 

saying.  Yet,  it  appears  that  lie  was  perfectly  sin- 
cere in  his  warm  championship  of  the  abolitionist 
movement.  He  had  the  deep  and  abiding  convic- 
tion that  slavery  was  a  great  evil  and  a  festering 
sore  which  threatened  the  very  existence  of  our 
national  life.  Nor  did  he  lack  the  moral  courage  to 
speak  out  his  convictions;  and  he  hurled  many  a 
dart,  tipped  with  biting  wit  and  ridicule,  against 
those  Northern  statesmen  who  counseled  a  tempor- 
izing policy  or  anything  short  of  emancipation. 
The  second  series  is  written  in  the  same  manner 
and  in  the  same  dialect  as  the  first.  The  author 
prefaced  the  collected  papers  with  a  treatise  on  the 
Yankee  dialect  which  has  proved  a  veritable  treas- 
ure-trove to  the  student  of  that  patois.  Conceived 
on  the  same  general  plan  and  executed  with  equal 
skill,  the  second  series  of  the  "Biglow  Papers"  made 
as  telling  a  hit  as  the  first,  published  almost  twenty 
years  before,  and  was  quite  as  far-reaching  in  influ- 
ence and  quite  as  potent  in  crystallizing  anti- 
slavery  sentiment. 

It  is  rather  noteworthy  that  some  of  Lowell's 
most  impassioned  poems  were  inspired  by  the 
question  of  slavery.  Witness  his  poems  "On  the 
Capture  of  the  Fugitive  Slaves  near  Washington" 
and  "Lines  on  the  Present  Crisis,"  which  for  in- 
tensity and  ardor  of  feeling  (even  if  we  do  not 
subscribe  to  the  sentiment)  are  almost  unexcelled 
by  anything  of  their  kind  in  English  during  the  last 
half-century.  Mr.  Stead  said  of  these  verses  that 
"they  as  nearly  approach  the  prophetic  fire  of 
Isaiah  and  Ezekiel  as  any  writing  in  prose  or  verse 
of  modern  times." 

In  1868  Lowell  published  "Under  the  Willows," 
which  poems,  as  the  appended  note  stated,  were 
written  at  intervals  during  many  years.  Two  years 
later  appeared  "The  Cathedral,"  a  beautiful,  though 


336  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

unequal  blank-verse  poem.  In  both  of  these  we  see 
the  same  rich  imagination  and  deftness  of  touch. 
True,  there  are  occasional  lapses  which  we  find  in 
well-nigh  all  of  Lowell's  poetry.  But  one  should 
not  take  these  to  be  earmarks  of  hasty  composition ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  seem  rather  to  be  the  defects 
of  his  genius.  These  latter  poems  are  not  so  vig- 
orous or  intense  as  his  patriotic  verse;  they  are 
more  subdued  in  tone,  the  outgrowth  of  a  mellowed 
experience  which  has  not  lost  its  faith  in  man  and 
God,  or  its  love  for  nature.  "Under  the  Willows" 
shows  that  same  love  of  nature  which  their  author 
had  exhibited  in  his  early  work,  and  has  all  the 
freshness  of  a  spring  morning.  Here  the  poet  again 
revels  in  the  beauties  of  June  with  all  the  zest  of  a 
child,  as  he  did  over  twenty  years  ago  in  "Sir  Laun- 
fal."  His  heart  was  still  young,  though  he  had 
already  passed  the  meridian  of  life.  The  truth  is, 
Lowell  always  retained,  even  up  to  the  evening  of 
his  life,  his  tender,  sympathetic  love  of  nature.  Nor 
did  Wordsworth,  whose  disciple  Lowell  would 
probably  have  acknowledged  himself  to  be,  scarcely 
love  her  more  passionately.  "Under  the  Willows" 
contains  some  of  Lowell's  finest  specimens  of  pure 
poetry,  such  as  "Auf  Wiedersehen"  and  "Palinode." 
By  way  of  illustration,  take  a  few  lines  from  that 
exquisite  little  poem,  "In  the  Twilight" : 

"Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 

An  odor  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me 

Of  a  splendor  thai  came  and  went, 
Of  a  life  lived  somewhere,  I  know  not 

In  what  diviner  sphere, 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  and  go  not, 

Like  music  once  heard  by  an  car 
That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it— 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  337 

A  something  so  shy,  it  would  slmme  it 

To  make1  il  n  show. 
A  something  too  vague,  could  I  name  it, 

For  others  to  know. 
As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 

Long  ago ! 

"And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over, 

This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 
Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover, 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover, 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again, 
Could  I  but  speak  and  show  it. 

This  pleasure,  more  sharp  than  pain, 
That  baffles  and  lures  me  so, 
The  world  should  not  lack  a  poet, 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad 
Long  ago!" 

Lowell  could,  when  occasion  required,  also  write 
heroic  verse,  which  voices  a  nation's  feelings.  In- 
deed, few  modern  poets  have  excelled  him  in  this 
field.  Most  state  poems  are  little  better  than  fail- 
ures. Lowell's,  however,  must  be  numbered  among 
the  exceptions ;  for  where  can  we  find  a  poem  more 
stately,  and  at  the  same  time  more  beautiful,  than 
his  "Harvard  Commemoration  Ode,"  or  "Under  the 
Old  Elm"?  These  memorial  poems  are  admired  by 
all,  and  are  among  the  finest  things  of  the  kind  in 
American  literature — yea,  in  English  literature. 

In  1877  Lowell  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain, 
and  three  years  later  was  transferred  to  the  Court 
of  St.  James.  Here  he  had  opportunity  to  cultivate 
his  gift  of  oratory,  and  as  a  diplomat  to  serve  his 
country.  In  this  responsible  post  he  proved  himself 
most  acceptable  to  the  English  people,  who  show- 


338  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

ered  honors  upon  him;  and  he  did  more  than  any 
other  American  to  weld  together  the  two  great 
branches  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  The  addresses 
delivered  during  the  years  of  his  official  duties  he 
afterwards  collected  and  published  under  the  title 
of  "Democracy  and  Other  Essays."  This  was  fol- 
lowed two  years  later  by  another  volume  of  "Poli- 
tical Essays,"  which  appeared  in  1888.  The  same 
year  he  collected  his  occasional  poems  and  published 
a  slender  volume,  entitling  it  "Heart's-ease  and 
Rue."  This  was  "sad  autumn's  last  chrysanthe- 
mum." The  course  of  lectures  on  the  old  English 
dramatists,  which  he  delivered  at  the  Lowell  Insti- 
tute in  1877,  was  not  published  till  after  his  death, 
in  1891. 

It  is  time  to  ask  the  question,  What  is  Lowell's 
place  in  literature?  Lowell  as  a  man  of  letters 
stands  before  the  world  to-day  as  both  poet  and 
critic ;  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  he  is 
more  favorably  known  by  his  poetry  or  by  his  criti- 
cism. Without  attempting  to  give  an  answer  to 
this  query,  let  us  now  endeavor  to  form  an  estimate 
of  him  in  each  of  these  roles.  And,  first,  as  to  his 
place  as  a  poet. 

LowelPs  poetic  range,  as  has  been  already  said, 
is  remarkably  wide.  He  could  write  poems  as 
diverse  in  conception  and  finish  and  as  far  removed 
in  style  and  sentiment  as  the  polished  "Sir  Launfal" 
and  the  rustic  effusions  of  Hosea  Biglow.  But  no 
matter  how  different  in  character,  all  his  poetry  is 
imaginative.  Not  all  of  his  verse,  however,  is  beau- 
tiful, though  the  poet  himself  possessed  a  keen 
innate  sense  of  beauty  which  was  strengthened  and 
developed  by  a  lifelong  study  of  the  best  literature. 
There  is  very  little  verse  in  the  "Biglow  Papers," 
which  can  be  called  beautiful,  either  in  form  or 
phrase.  Indeed,  so  far  is  this  political  satire  from 


.JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  339 

being  beautiful  that  most  critics  see  almost  nothing 
in  it  to  admire  except  its  passion  and  vigor  of  ex- 
pression. It  is  very  grotesque,  and  has  no  felicity 
of  phrase  to  commend  it.  But  it  is  useless  to  make 
these  strictures  on  the  poem.  The  poet  chose  the 
coarse,  unpolished  Yankee  dialect  as  part  and 
parcel  of  his  conception  of  Hosea  Biglow,  who 
would  not  have  been  true  to  the  shrewd  Yankee 
character  if  he  had  spoken  in  any  other  tongue.  We 
ought  to  feel  indebted  to  Lowell's  genius  for  thus 
portraying  that  character  in  its  proper  setting,  as 
well  as  for  fashioning  such  vigorous  and  passionate 
verses  out  of  such  a  homely  dialect.  Lowell  made 
no  claim  to  lofty  poetry  in  the  "Biglow  Papers." 
He  intended  them  to  be  taken  merely  as  a  kind  of 
serio-comic  satire  in  which  he  gave  impassioned 
utterance  to  his  own  feelings  upon  the  distinct  issue 
of  his  times.  And  that  is  all  we  are  to  take  the 
Drapers"  for.  It  is  by  Lowell's  more  serious  poetry 
that  we  are  to  judge  of  his  standing  as  a  poet. 
Leaving  out  of  consideration,  therefore,  his  satiric 
verse,  let  us  form  an  estimate  by  such  poetry  as  his 
"Sir  Launfal,"  "Under  the  Willows/'  "Heart's-ease 
and  Rue,"  "Memorial  Odes,"  and  "Early  Poems." 
Lowell's  gifts  were  preeminently  lyrical;  and  his 
lyrics  are,  for  the  most  part,  beautiful  in  concep- 
tion, in  sentiment,  and  in  workmanship.  We  must 
search  far  and  wide  in  American  literature  before 
we  find  anywhere  a  more  imposing,  passionate,  and 
graceful  poem  than  the  "Commemoration  Ode,"  or 
"Under  the  Old  Elm,"  or  "Sir  Launfal."  Some  of 
his  shorter,  less  pretentious  lyrics  are  equally  beau- 
tiful. But  this  is  far  from  claiming  that  they  are 
perfect.  Beauty,  charm,  felicity  of  diction — all 
these  qualities  Lowell's  poems  possess;  but  we  feel 
that  they  nevertheless  lack  the  supreme  quality  of 
melody,  spontaneity.  They  do  not,  in  the  now  trite 


340  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

phrase  of  Matthew  Arnold,  "rise  like  an  exhala- 
tion" :  they  do  not  sing  themselves.  They  do  not 
gush  spontaneously  from  the  heart,  as  water  welling 
from  the  fountain,  or  as  the  liquid  notes  float  out 
upon  the  air  from  the  throat  of  the  nightingale. 
They  lack  that  lilt,  that  melody  which  we  feel  in  the 
poetry  of  Shelley,  and  of  our  own  Poe.  But  how 
few  is  the  number  of  poets  that  possess  it ! 

Lowell  was  a  critic  par  excellence.  It  was  the  crit- 
ical faculty,  it  seems/ that  was  most  fully  developed 
in  him.  And  no  doubt  it  was  the  critic  in  the  man 
that  put  a  check  upon  his  creative  genius,  upon  his 
poetic  utterance.  His  training,  his  instincts,  his 
tastes,  his  scholarship — all  these  combined  to  fit 
him  for  the  office  of  critic.  His  criticism  is  at  once 
subtle,  penetrating,  independent,  and  catholic.  His 
critical  writings,  therefore,  have  a  real  and  perma- 
nent value.  When  he  pronounced  upon  an  author, 
his  judgment  has  generally  been  sustained  by  the 
popular  verdict.  No  American  man  of  letters  has 
ever  put  pen  to  paper  who  was  better  equipped  for 
the  work  of  a  critic  than  was  Lowell.  Poe,  though 
superior  to  him  in  the  domain  of  pure  poetry,  was 
far  inferior  as  a  critic.  Poe,  to  be  sure,  deserves 
great  credit  for  his  pioneer  work  in  literary  criti- 
cism in  America,  but  he  never  had  the  thorough 
qualification  and  innate  gift  of  criticism  which 
Lowell  possessed.  Poe  was  too  easily  led  astray  by 
prejudice  to  render  an  unbiased  and  trustworthy 
judgment ;  and  he  could  not  always  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  display  his  learning,  which  sometimes  was 
little  better  than  arrant  ignorance  masquerading 
in  the  guise  of  pedantry.  Lowell  never  laid  him- 
self open  to  censure  on  this  score.  He  had  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  all  (hat  fell  within  his  prov- 
ince to  review.  He  was  somewhat  bookish,  perhaps 
a  little  pedantic.  There  is  an  air  of  erudition  about 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  341 

all  his  work ;  he  could  never  quite  rid  himself  of  it. 
He  makes  you  feel  that  lie  is  a  scholar,  and  he  was. 
He  is  sat  united  with  the  spirit  of  literature,  and 
this,  like  the  odor  of  nicotine,  clings  to  all  that  he 
wrote.  Yet  it  would  be  manifestly  unjust  to  call 
him  a  pedant.  He  was  close  enough  in  touch  with 
the  world  to  develop  an  almost  unerring  faculty 
for  detecting  counterfeit  and  sham  wherever  they 
lurked ;  and  we  feel  that  when  he  censures,  the  cen- 
sure is  just. 

Lowell  was  a  critic  of  broad  sympathies.  Where 
can  we  find  a  better  illustration  of  this  fact  than  is 
afforded  by  his  sympathetic  treatment  of  poets  so 
widely  removed  from  one  another  in  temperament 
and  style  as  Dry  den  and  Dante?  How  charmingly 
he  writes  upon  authors  of  our  own  literature  so  re- 
mote from  one  another  in  time  as  Chaucer  and 
Shakespeare !  And,  too,  his  English  is  so  excellent, 
and  his  writing  such  easy  reading !  Such  a  volume 
as  "My  Fireside  Travels,"  or  "Among  My  Books," 
is  positively  refreshing,  a  genuine  tonic  to  an  appe- 
tite jaded  from  reading  many  of  our  present-day 
books,  with  their  slipshod  English,  with  which  the 
rushing  printing  presses  are  flooding  our  land.  Not 
that  Lowell's  English  is  absolutely  impeccable,  or 
"faultily  faultless.7'  He  was  no  purist ;  on  the  con- 
trary, like  most  virile  writers,  he  has  certain  con- 
ceits, such  as  his  occasional  use  of  polysyllables  and 
newly  coined  words.  So  sparse  is  the  sprinkling, 
however,  that  these  do  not  mar  his  page.  But,  to 
quote  his  own  words  in  reference  to  another,  he  has 
"that  exquisite  something  called  style,  wiiich  makes 
itself  felt  by  the  skill  with  which  it  effaces  itself, 
and  masters  us  at  last  with  a  sense  of  indefinable 
completeness."  His  page,  too,  is  warm  with  a  genial 
humor,  flashes  with  pungent  wit,  and  refreshes  us 
with  a  breezy,  winsome  style.  Lowell  is  beyond 


342  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

question  the  most  brilliant  and  scholarly  of  our 
critics.  In  him  American  literary  criticism  reached 
its  high-water  mark.  No  other  man  of  letters  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic  has  equaled  him ;  and,  per- 
haps, only  one  of  his  contemporaries  in  England  has 
surpassed  him,  namely,  Matthew  Arnold.  It  is, 
assuredly,  a  great  distinction  thus  to  have  impressed 
one's  personality  upon  one's  age. 

Lowell's  genius  would  hardly  be  considered  pro- 
lific. Other  American  men  of  letters  have  exceeded 
his  output.  As  previously  said,  it  was  perhaps  his 
critical  faculty  that  prevented  a  fuller  flowering  of 
his  poetic  gifts ;  and  doubtless  his  public  duties  pre- 
cluded the  employment,  to  its  greatest  extent,  of 
his  genius  for  criticism.  He  never  undertook,  so  far 
as  is  known,  a  magnum  opus.  He  expended  his 
energies  upon  the  themes  suggested  by  the  issues  of 
the  day,  and  thus  produced  a  very  creditable,  though 
not  voluminous,  amount  both  of  prose  and  poetry. 
His  fancy  strikes  us  sometimes  as  being  a  little 
exuberant,  and  we  almost  wish  that  at  times  he  had 
exercised  some  restraint,  especially  upon  his  flow  of 
language.  But  generally  he  has  his  powers  entirely 
under  control,  and  exhibits  a  very  terse  art  of  ex- 
pression. He  has  presumably  given  us  his  best ;  and 
it  is  useless  to  criticise  an  author  for  not  giving  us 
better  than  his  best.  What  he  has  left  us  is,  indeed, 
of  a  very  high  order,  and  ranks  with  the  best  in  our 
literature.  We  have  reason  then  to  be  content  with 
the  rich  legacy  he  has  bequeathed  to  American  lit- 
erature, and  to  believe  with  Mr.  Stedman  that  in 
him  we  have  "a  poet  who  is  our  most  brilliant  and 
learned  critic,  and  who  has  given  us  our  best  native 
idyl,  our  best  and  most  complete  work  in  dialectic 
verse,  and  the  noblest  heroic  ode  that  America  has 
])]•()(! nerd — each  and  all  ranking  with  the  first  of 
their  kind  in  English  literature  of  the  modern 
time." 


LOWELL 
BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES 


Every  book  we  read  may  be  made  a  round  in  the  ever- 
lengthening  ladder  by  which  we  climb  to  knowledge, 
and  to  that  temperance  and  serenity  of  mind  which,  as 
it  is  the  ripest  fruit  of  Wisdom,  is  also  the  sweetest. 
But  this  can  only  be  if  we  read  snch  books  as  make  us 
think,  and  read  them  in  such  a  way  as  helps  them  to 
do  so,  that  is,  by  endeavoring  to  judge  them,  and  thus 
to  make  them  an  exercise  rather  than  a  relaxation  of 
the  mind.  Desultory  reading,  except  as  conscious 
pastime,  hebetates  the  brain  and  slackens  the  bow- 
string of  Will.  It  communicates  as  little  intelligence 
as-  the  messages  that  run  along  the  telegraph  wire  to 
the  birds  that  perch  on  it.  Few  men  learn  the  high- 
est use  of  books.  After  lifelong  study  many  a  man 
discovers  too  late  that  to  have  had  the  philosopher's 
stone  availed  nothing  without  the  philosopher  to  use 
it.  Many  a  scholarly  life,  stretched  like  a  talking 
wire  to  bring  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  into  commu- 
nion with  the  present,  can  at  last  yield  us  no  better 
news  than  the  true  accent  of  a  Greek  verse,  or  the 
translation  of  some  filthy  nothing  scrawled  on  the 
walls  of  a  brothel  by  some  Pompeian  idler.  And  it 
is  certainly  true  that  the  material  of  thought  reacts 
upon  the  thought  itself.  Shakespeare  himself  would 
have  been  commonplace  had  he  been  paddocked  in  a 
thinly-shaven  vocabulary,  and  Phidias,  had  he  worked 
in  wax,  only  a  more  inspired  Mrs.  Jarley.  A  man  is 
known,  says  the  proverb,  by  the  company  he  keeps, 
and  not  only  so,  but  made  by  it.  Milton  makes  his 
fallen  angels  grow  small  to  enter  the  infernal  council 
room,  but  the  soul,  which  God  meant  to  be  the  spacious 


344  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

chamber  where  high  thoughts  and  generous  aspira- 
tions might  commune  together,  shrinks  and  narrows 
itself  to  the  measure  of  the  meaner  company  that  is 
wont  to  gather  there,  hatching  conspiracies  against 
our  better  selves.  We  are  apt  to  wonder  at  the 
scholarship  of  the  men  of  three  centuries  ago,  and  at 
a  certain  dignity  of  phrase  that  characterizes  them. 
They  were  scholars  because  they  did  not  read  so  many 
things  as  we.  They  had  fewer  books,  but  these  were 
of  the  best.  Their  speech  was  noble,  because  they 
lunched  with  Plutarch  and  supped  with  Plato.  We 
spend  as  much  time  over  print  as  they  did,  but  in- 
stead of  communing  with  the  choice  thoughts  of 
choice  spirits,  and  unconsciously  acquiring  the  grand 
manner  of  that  supreme  society,  we  diligently  inform 
ourselves,  and  cover  the  continent  with  a  cobweb  of 
telegraphs  to  inform  us,  of  such  inspiring  facts  as 
that  a  horse  belonging  to  Mr.  Smith  ran  away  on 
Wednesday,  seriously  damaging  a  valuable  carryall; 
that  a  son  of  Mr.  Brown  swallowed  a  hickory  nut 
on  Thursday;  and  that  a  gravel  bank  caved  in  and 
buried  Mr.  Robinson  alive  on  Friday.  Alas,  it  is  we 
ourselves  that  are  getting  buried  alive  under  this 
avalanche  of  earthy  impertinences.  It  is  we  who, 
while  we  might  each  in  his  humble  way  be  helping 
our  fellows  into  the  right  path,  or  adding  one  block 
to  the  climbing  spire  of  a  fine  soul,  are  willing  to 
become  mere  sponges  saturated  from  the  stagnant 
goose-pond  of  village  gossip.  This  is  the  kind  of 
news  we  compass  the  globe  to  catch,  fresh  from 
Bungtown  Centre,  when  we  might  have  it  fresh  from 
heaven  by  the  electric  lines  of  poet  or  prophet!  It  is 
bad  enough  that  we  should  be  compelled  to  know  so 
many  nothings,  but  it  is  downright  intolerable  that 
we  must  wash  so  many  barrow-loads  of  gravel  to  find 
a  grain  of  mica  after  all.  And  then  to  be  told  that 
UK'  ability  !o  read  makes  us  all  shareholders  in  tiie 
Bonanza  Mine  of  Universal  Intelligence! 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  345 

One  is  sometimes  asked  by  young  people  to  recom- 
mend a  course  of  reading.  My  advice  would  be  that 
they  should  confine  themselves  to  the  supreme  books 
in  whatever  literature,  or  still  better  to  choose  some 
one  great  author,  and  make  themselves  thoroughly 
familiar  with  him.  For,  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
so  do  they  likewise  lead  away  from  it,  and  you  will 
find  that,  in  order  to  understand  perfectly  and  weigh 
exactly  any  vital  piece  of  literature,  you  will  be 
gradually  and  pleasantly  persuaded  to  excursions  and 
explorations  of  which  you  little  dreamed  when  you 
began,  and  will  find  yourselves  scholars  before  you 
are  aware.  For  remember  that  there  is  nothing  less 
profitable  than  scholarship  for  the  mere  sake  of 
scholarship,  nor  anything  more  wearisome  in  the  at- 
tainment. But  the  moment  you  have  a  definite  aim, 
attention  is  quickened,  the  mother  of  memory,  and 
all  that  you  acquire  groups  and  arranges  itself  in  an 
order  that  is  lucid,  because  everywhere  and  always-  it 
is  in  intelligent  relation  to  a  central  object  of  con- 
stant and  growing  interest.  This  method  also  forces 
upon  us  the  necessity  of  thinking,  which  is,  after  all, 
the  highest  result  of  all  education.  For  what  we 
want  is  not  learning,  but  knowledge;  that  is,  the 
power  to  make  learning  answer  its  true  end  as  a 
quickener  of  intelligence  and  a  widener  of  our  intel- 
lectual sympathies.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  every 
one  is  fitted  by  nature  or  inclination  for  a  definite 
course  of  study,  or  indeed  for  serious  study  in  any 
sense.  I  am  quite  willing  that  these  should  "browse 
in  a  library,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  called  it,  to  their  hearts' 
content.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  way  in  which  time 
may  be  profitably  wasted.  But  desultory  reading 
will  not  make  a  "full  man,"  as  Bacon  understood  it, 
of  one  who  has  not  Johnson's  memory,  his  power  of 
assimilation,  and,  above  all,  his  comprehensive  view  of 
the  relations  of  things.  "Read  not,"  says  Lord  Bacon 
in  his  Essay  of  Studies,  "to  contradict  and  confute; 
nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted;  nor  to  find  talk 


346  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

and  discourse ;  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books 
are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some 
few  to  be  chewed  and  digested;  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to  be  read,  but 
not  curiously,  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly  and  with 
diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read 
by  deputy."  This  is  weighty  and  well  said,  and  I  would 
call  your  attention  especially  to  the  wise  words  with 
which  the  passage  closes.  The  best  books  are  not  al- 
ways those  which  lend  themselves  to  discussion  and 
comment,  but  those  (like  Montaigne's  Essays)  which 
discuss  and  comment  ourselves-. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  such  books  as  should  be 
chosen  for  profitable  reading.  A  public  library,  of 
course,  must  be  far  wider  in  its  scope.  It  should  con- 
tain something  for  all  tastes,  as  well  as  the  material 
for  a  thorough  grounding  in  all  branches  of  knowledge. 
It  should  be  rich  in  books-  of  reference,  in  encyclopae- 
dias, where  one  may  learn  without  cost  of  research 
what  things  are  generally  known.  For  it  is  far  more 
useful  to  know  these  than  to  know  those  that  are  not 
generally  known.  Not  to  know  them  is  the  defect  of 
those  half-trained  and  therefore  hasty  men  who  find 
a  mare's  nest  on  every  branch  of  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge. A  library  should  contain  ample  stores  of  his- 
tory, which,  if  it  do  not  always  deserve  the  pompous 
title  which  Bolingbroke  gave  it,  of  philosophy  teaching 
by  example,  certainly  teaches  many  things  profitable 
for  us  to  know  and  lay  to  heart;  teaches,  among 
other  things,  how  much  of  the  present  is  still  held  in 
mortmain  by  the  past;  teaches  that,  if  there  be  no 
controlling  purpose,  there  is,  at  least,  a  sternly  logi- 
cal sequence  in  human  affairs,  ami  1hat  chance  has 
but  a  trifling  dominion  over  them;  teaches  why  things 
are  and  must  be  so  and  not  otherwise,  and  that,  of  all 
ImpHess  contests,  the  most  hopeless  is  that  which 
fools  are  most  eager  to  challenge, — with  the  Nature 
of  Things;  teaches,  perhaps  more  than  anything  else, 
the  value  of  personal  character  as  a  chief  factor  in 


,JAMi:S    KUSSKLL    LONYKLL  347 

what  used  to  be  en  lied  destiny,  for  that  cause  is 
strong  which  has  not  a  multitude  but  one  strong 
man  behind  it.  History  is,  indeed,  mainly  the  biog- 
raphy of  a  lew  im]K»rial  men,  and  forces  home  upon 
us  ilie  useful  lesson  how  intinitesimally  important  our 
own  private  all'airs  are  to  the  universe  in  general. 
History  is  clarified  experience,  and  yet  how  little  do 
men  profit  by  it;  nay,  how  should  we  expect  it  of 
those  who  so  seldom  are  taught  anything  by  their 
own!  Delusions,  especially  economical  delusions, 
seem  the  only  things  that  have  any  chance  of  an 
earthy  i minor ta.lity.  I  would  have  plenty  of  biog- 
raphy. It  is  no  insignificant  fact  that  eminent  men 
have  always  loved  their  Plutarch,  since  example, 
whether  for  emulation  or  avoidance,  is  never  so 
poignant  as  when  presented  to  us  in  a  striking  per- 
sonality. Autobiographies  are  also  instructive  read- 
ing to  the  student  of  human  nature,  though  generally 
written  by  men  who  are  more  interesting  to  them- 
selves than  to  their  fellow-men.  I  have  been  told 
that  Emerson  and  George  Eliot  agreed  in  thinking 
Rousseau's  Confessions  the  most  interesting  book  they 
had  ever  read. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
SIDNEY  LANIER 

Poetry  in  the  South  since  the  Civil  War  has  been 
almost  a  neglected  field  of  literature.  Prose  writers 
such  as  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  George  W.  Cable, 
James  Lane  Allen,  Eichard  Malcolm  Johnston, 
Thomas  Nelson  Page  and  others  of  less  note  have 
flourished  and  seem  to  have  absorbed  the  entire 
interest  of  the  reading  public.  But  of  poetry  there 
has  been  a  dearth.  Of  the  few  poets  who  have 
warbled  forth  their  songs  only  two  or  three  have 
risen  to  anything  like  a  conspicuous  place  in  Amer- 
ican literature. 

Whether  Poe's  conviction  that  there  was  no  equal 
chance  for  the  native  Southern  poets  be  the  true 
explanation  of  this  fact  or  not,  it  would  be  idle  here 
to  discuss.  The  fact  remains  that  since  the  Civil 
War  there  has  been  but  one  poet  of  renown  in  the 
South,  and  that  poet  was  Sidney  Lanier.  Perhaps 
the  ardent  admirers  of  Timrod  and  of  Paul  Hamil- 
ton Hayne,  "the  poet  laureate  of  the  South,"  as  his 
enthusiastic  devotees,  with  more  zeal  than  knowl- 
edge, are  pleased  to  style  him,  would  not  permit 
this  statement  to  pass  unchallenged.  Timrod's 
claim  may  be  dismissed  with  the  remark  that  he 
cannot  properly  be  considered,  as  his  premature 
death,  in  1867,  closed  his  brief,  but  promising  career 
almost  synchronously  with  the  war.  Of  Hayne  it 
may  be  said  that  he  is  not  known  outside  of  his  own 
country  and  not  very  widely  known  even  in  Amer- 
ica. It  is  significant  to  note  here  that  when  a  few 
years  ago  Mr.  Edmund  Grosse,  an  eminent  English 


SIDNMY    LAMIIU  349 

critic  and  literal  cur,  contributed  to  the  Forum  an 
essay  upon  the  somewhat  invidious  question,  "lias 
America  produced  u  poet?"  he  made  no  mention 
whatsoever  of  Hayne  (or  of  Timrod  either,  for  the 
matter  of  that  ),  but  lie  did  consider  Lanier's  claim 
to  the  distinction  of  being  a  poet. 

Lanier  was  born  at  Macon,  Georgia,  on  the  third 
of  February,  1842.  From  his  parents  he  inherited 
his  passion  for  music  and  poetry,  for  both  on 
father's  and  mother's  side  the  love  of  these  two 
kindred  arts  dates  so  far  back  in  the  families  as  to 
amount  to  a  traditional  characteristic.  So  pro- 
nounced was  Sidney's  love  for  music  that  when  only 
a  child,  his  biographer  tells  us,  "he  learned  to  play 
almost  without  instruction,  on  every  kind  of  instru- 
ment he  could  find;  and  while  yet  a  boy  he  played 
the  flute,  organ,  piano,  violin,  guitar  and  banjo, 
especially  devoting  himself  to  tlie  flute  in  deference 
to  his  father,  who  feared  for  him  the  powerful  fas- 
cination of  the  violin.  For  it  was  the  violin-voice 
that,  above  all  others,  commanded  his  soul.  He  has 
related  that  during  his  college  days,  it  would  some- 
times so  exhalt  him  in  rapture  that  presently  he 
would  sink  from  his  solitary  music-worship  into  a 
deep  trance,  thence  to  awaken,  alone,  on  the  floor  of 
his  room,  sorely  shaken  in  nerve.  It  is  not,  there- 
fore, surprising  that  Lanier  followed  music  as  his 
profession  in  life,  since  his  love  for  it  even  from 
childhood  amounted  to  a  passion.  The  effect,  too, 
of  his  all-absorbing  passion  for  music  upon  his 
poetry  is  quite  pronounced.  Whether  he  would 
have  devoted  himself  wholly  to  music  or  to  poetry, 
had  he  found  some  Maecenas  to  provide  for  his 
material  wants,  it  would  be  impossible  to  say. 
Certain  it  is  that  his  impecunious  condition  pre- 
vented the  full  fruition  of  his  passionate  love  of 
either  music  or  poetry,  by  degrading  the  products 


350  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

of  his  genius  to  the  sordid  level  of  their  commercial 
value,  in  order  to  enable  him  to  eke  out  a  living  for 
himself  and  his  family.  Alas,  too  often  has  nature 
imposed  so  severe  a  condition  of  existence  upon  her 
sons  of  genius. 

Even  in  his  college  days  (he  attended  Oglethorpe 
College,  in  his  native  state),  he  felt  the  drawing  in- 
fluence of  the  two  kindred  arts  of  music  and  poetry 
upon  his  soul;  and  concerning  his  vocation  in  life 
he  says  in  his  college  note-book :  "The  point  I  wish 
to  settle  is  merely,  by  what  method  shall  I  ascertain 
what  I  am  fit  for,  as  preliminary  to  ascertaining 
God's  will  with  reference  to  me;  or  what  my  incli- 
nations are  as  preliminary  to  ascertaining  what  my 
capacities  are;  that  is,  what  I  am  fit  for.  I  am 
more  than  all  perplexed  by  this  fact,  that  the  prime 
inclination,  that  is,  natural  bent  (which  I  have 
checked,  though )  of  my  nature  is  to  music ;  and  for 
that  I  have  the  greatest  talent ;  indeed,  not  boasting, 
for  God  gave  it  to  me,  I  have  an  extraordinary  mus- 
ical talent  and  feel  it  within  me  plainly  that  I  could 
rise  as  high  as  any  composer.  But  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  believe  that  I  was  intended  for  a  musi- 
cian, because  it  seems  so  small  a  business  in  com- 
parison with  other  things  which,  it  seems  to  me,  I 
might  do." 

It  was  Lanier's  weakness,  if  that  is  not  too  strong 
a  word  to  use,  that  he  could  not  definitely  make  up 
his  mind  whether  he  was  intended  for  a  musician  or 
a  poet.  He  felt  both  passions  in  his  soul  struggling 
for  utterance.  Or,  as  Stedman  has  beautifully  ex- 
pressed it,  "in  him  the  sister-spirits  of  Music  and 
Poesy  contended  with  a  rivalry  as  strong  as  that 
between  'twin  daughters  of  one  race,'  both  loving 
and  both  worshipped  by  one  whom  death  too  soon 
removed  while  he  strove  to  perfect  their  reconcilia- 
tion." Had  he  been  able  to  determine  in  his  early 


SIDNEY   LANIER  351 

life,  once  for  nil,  that  nature  intended  him  for  a 
musician,  like  Paganini,  he  might  have  moved  vast 
audiences  to  rapturous  delight  by  the  soul-stirring 
music  of  his  violin.  But  then  we  should  have  been 
deprived  of  much  line,  graceful  poetry  which  adorns 
and  enriches  American  literature.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  he  had  followed,  untrammelled,  his  literary 
bent  and  poetic  taste,  he  would  probably  have  pro- 
duced more  copious  and  spontaneous  verses  and  of 
supernal  beauty.  In  short,  had  he  been  less  of  a 
musician,  he  would  probably  have  been  more  of  a 
poet.  Even  as  it  was,  he  has  left  us  much  poetry 
that  is  destined  to  something  more  than  a  fugitive 
existence,  yea  to  an  immortality  as  enduring  as  the 
republic  of  American  letters,  and  has  won  for  him- 
self a  place  among  the  first  poets  of  America.  He 
is  not,  then,  of  that  class  of  poets  who,  as  Words- 
worth said  with  keen  poetic  insight,  "ne'er  have 
penned  their  inspiration." 

But  Lanier  was  not  permitted  to  devote  himself, 
uninterrupted,  to  his  chosen  pursuits.  From  culti- 
vating the  Muse  he  was  called  by  his  duty  to  his 
country  to  enlist  in  the  Confederate  army,  and  with 
his  company  from  his  native  Georgia,  he  was  sent  to 
do  service,  brave  soldier  that  he  was,  upon  the  bat« 
tie-scarred  soil  of  Virginia.  But  the  life  of  a  soldier 
was  not  to  his  taste,  just  as  it  has  not  been  to  the 
taste  of  many  another  literary  man  from  the  days 
of  the  genial  Horace  down  to  the  present.  In  "Tiger 
Lilies,"  a  novel  he  wrote  a  year  after  the  close  of  the 
war,  he  has  given  us  a  picture  of  his  experiences 
in  Point  Lookout  prison,  where  he  was  kept  in  close 
confinement  for  five  months  during  the  latter  part 
of  his  career  as  a  soldier.  Even  during  his  impris- 
onment he  had  with  him  his  indispensable  flute, 
which  he  had  concealed  under  his  sleeve  when  he 
entered  the  prison.  On  his  release  he  made  his  way, 


352  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

on  foot,  back  to  his  home  in  Georgia,  only  to  be 
prostrated,  upon  his  arrival,  by  a  desperate  illness, 
from  which  he  recovered  with  shattered  health. 
It  was  during  the  war  that  he  felt  the  premonitions 
of  that  fell  disease  consumption,  with  which  the 
rest  of  his  life  was  a  pathetic  struggle,  and  to 
which,  like  the  poet  "whose  name  was  writ  in 
water,"  he  was  in  the  end  to  succumb. 

To  provide  for  the  material  needs  of  himself  and 
his  little  family,  he  addressed  himself  successively 
to  teaching  and  the  practice  of  law.  But  neither  of 
these  professions,  though  they  might  have  yielded 
him  bread  enough  for  his  wife  and  babes,  satisfied 
the  poet-spirit  in  the  man.  His  artistic  nature  was 
starving,  and  the  keen  pangs  of  that  hunger  were 
torturing  his  sensitive  soul.  It  was  during  this 
period  that  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Bayard  Taylor, 
those  pathetic  lines,  "I  could  never  describe  to  you 
what  a  mere  drought  and  famine  my  life  has  been. 
.  Perhaps  you  know  that,  with  us  the 
younger  generation  in  the  South,  since  the  war, 
pretty  much  the  whole  of  life  has  been  merely  not 
dying."  He  resolved  to  seek  a  more  congenial  atmos- 
phere where  his  feeling  for  art  might  expand  and 
develop.  Accordingly,  in  December,  1873,  he 
moved  to  Baltimore  and  procured  for  himself  an 
engagement  as  first  flute  for  the  Peabody  Symphony 
Concerts.  It  was  several  years  after  this  that  he 
was  appointed  lecturer  on  English  literature  in  the 
Johns  Hopkins  University. 

The  lectureship  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  University 
afforded  Lanier  abundant  opportunity  for  study 
and  he  eagerly  embraced  it,  addressing  himself  to 
the  congenial  task  with  all  the  diligence  and  ear- 
nestness of  his  noble  nature.  But  his  feeble  body 
gradually  wasting  away  with  consumption  proved 
unequal  to  the  labor  involved  and  his  frequent  hem- 


SIDM:V  LAMER  353 

orrkages  warned  him  iliat  he  must  desist.  Yet  he 
knew  that  he  was  under  the  stern  necessity  of  work- 
ing to  provide  bread  for  his  wife  and  babes,  and  was 
too  high-spirited  to  be  an  object  of  charity.  At  the 
same  time  he  felt  that  he  had  to  write  in  order  to 
give  expression  to  the  thoughts  of  his  poetic  imag- 
ination that  pressed  for  utterance,  since  dread  dis- 
ease was  threatening  to  seal  his  lips  in  death.  This 
chapter  in  Lanier's  life  is  a  story  of  as  brave  and 
pathetic  a  struggle  as  any  to  be  found  in  the  history 
of  literary  biography.  So  he  struggled  on,  working 
often,  literally,  at  fever  heat,  till  the  end  came  in 
the  autumn  of  1881,  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina,  whither  he  had  fled  temporarily  to  prolong 
his  life. 

During  his  residence  in  Baltimore,  in  addition  to 
the  fugitive  poems  contributed  to  such  magazines 
as  Lippincott'Sy  Scribner's  and  the  Independent, 
Lanier  wrote  two  books  of  exceptional  value  and 
individuality, — "The  English  Novel"  and  the 
"Science  of  English  Verse."  These  treatises  were  the 
product  of  the  stimulus  of  his  staff  appointment  and 
were  delivered  as  lectures  at  the  Johns  Hopkins 
University.  The  "Science  of  English  Verse"  shows 
marked  originality  and  deep  insight  and  is  fre- 
quently quoted  by  scholars  in  that  field  as  worthy  of 
profound  consideration.  The  several  books  of  tales 
from  our  old  literature  such  as  "Malory's  King 
Arthur"  and  the  "Welsh  Mabinogian"  which  Lanier 
edited  for  boys,  about  this  same  time,  deserve  no 
special  mention  except  that  the  work  was  admir- 
ably done. 

To  his  father  who  desired  him  to  return  to  Geor- 
gia and  settle  with  him  and  share  his  income,  the 
poet  wrote: 


354  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

My  dear  father,  think  how,  for  twenty  years,  through 
poverty,  through  pain,  through  weariness,  through  sick- 
ness, through  the  uncongenial  atmosphere  of  a  farcical 
college  and  of  a  bare  army  and  then  of  an  exacting 
business  life,  through  all  the  discouragement  of  being 
wholly  unacquainted  with  literary  people  and  literary 
ways — I  say,  think  how,  in  spite  of  all  these  depressing 
circumstances,  and  of  a  thousand  more  which  I  could 
enumerate,  these  two  figures  of  music  and  poetry  have 
steadily  kept  in  my  heart  so  that  I  could  not  banish 
them.  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  to  me,  that  I  begin 
to  have  the  right  to  enroll  myself  among  the  devotees 
of  these  two  sublime  arts,  after  having  followed  them 
so  long  and  so  humbly,  and  through  so  much  bitter- 
ness? 

But  Lanier  had  faith  in  his  mission;  and  it  was 
this  indomitable,  never-failing  faith  in  his  own  mis- 
sion that  inspired  his  heart  amid  all  the  sufferings 
he  had  endured  for  the  present  and  nerved  that 
heart  against  the  ominous  future  his  frequently 
recurring  hemorrhages  boded.  Under  the  inspira- 
tion of  this  implicit  confidence  in  his  mission  he 
wrote  to  his  wife,  after  one  of  his  hemorrhages, 
"Were  it  not  for  some  circumstances  which  make 
such  a  proposition  seem  absurd  in  the  highest  de- 
gree, I  would  think  that  I  am  shortly  to  die,  and 
that  my  spirit  hath  been  singing  its  swan-song  be- 
fore dissolution.  All  day  my  soul  hath  been  cutting 
swiftly  into  the  great  space  of  the  subtle,  unspeak- 
able deep,  driven  by  wind  after  wind  of  heavenly 
melody."  And  again,  to  comfort  his  wife  and  dispel 
a  lurking  suspicion  she  entertained  that  he  had, 
after  all,  perhaps  made  a  mistake  in  devoting  his 
life  to  literature,  he  wrote : 

Know,  then,  that  disappointments  were  inevitable, 
and  will  still  come  until  I  have  fought  the  battle  which 


SIDNEY   LANIER  355 

every  great  artist  has  had  to  fight  since  time  began. 
This  — dimly  felt  while  I  was  doubtful  of  my  own  voca- 
tion and  powers —  is  clear  as  the  sun  to  me  now  that  I 
knoiv,  through  the  fiercest  tests  of  life,  that  I  am  in 
soul,  and  shall  be  in  life  and  utterance,  a  great  poet. 

Now  this  is  written  because  I  sit  here  in  my  room 
daily,  and  picture  thee  picturing  me  worn, and  troubled, 
or  disheartened;  and  because  I  do  not  wish  thee  to 
think  up  any  groundless  sorrow  in  thy  soul.  Of  course 
I  have  my  keen  sorrows,  momentarily  more  keen  than  I 
would  like  any  one  to  know;  but  I  thank  God  that  in 
a  knowledge  of  Him  and  of  myself  which  cometh  to  me 
daily  in  fresh  revelations,  I  have  a  steadfast  firmament 
of  blue,  in  which  all  clouds  soon  dissolve.  I  have 
wanted  to  say  this  several  times  of  late,  but  it  is  not 
easy  to  bring  one's  self  to  talk  so  of  one's  self,  even  to 
one's  dearer  self. 

Have,  then no  fears  nor  anxieties 

in  my  behalf;  look  upon  all  my  disappointments  as 
mere  witnesses  that  art  has  no  enemy  so  unrelenting  as 
cleverness-,  and  as  rough  weather  that  seasons  timber. 
It  is  of  little  consequence  whether  I  fail ;  the  7  in  the 
matter  is  a  small  business:  "Que  mon  nom  soit  fletri. 
que  la  France  soit  libre!"  quoth  Danton;  which  is  to 
say,  interpreted  by  my  environment,  Let  my  name  per- 
ish— the  poetry  is  good  poetry  and  the  music  is  good 
music,  and  beauty  dieth  not,  and  the  heart  that  needs 
it  will  find  it. 

Here,  then,  we  have  Lanier's  confession  of  his 
own  conviction  that  he  was  a  poet,  nay  a  great 
poet — a  conviction  that  grew  with  his  years.  Per- 
haps it  is  time  for  us  to  inquire,  Was  Lanier  a  great 
poet?  The  unbiased  answer  to  this  question  must 
l>o  in  the  negative,  if  by  a  great  poet  is  meant  one 
who  is  entitled  to  rank  with  the  world's  great  poets, 
such  as  Dante,  Goethe,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Words- 
worth, Byron  and  Tennyson,  to  mention  only  mod- 


356  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

eras.  But  while  Lanier  is  not  entitled  to  rank  with 
these  world-poets,  so  to  say,  nor  even  with  such 
lesser  lights  as  Shelley  or  Keats,  he  is  yet  a  poet 
whose  work  has  in  it  elements  of  permanency  and 
will  bear  comparison  with  the  best  poetic  product 
that  America  has  produced.  Let  us,  then,  if  we 
may,  review  his  poetic  output  and  examine  more  in 
detail  its  quality. 

The  first  poem  of  Lanier  which  won  for  him  the 
admiring  attention  of  the  reading  public  was 
"Corn/7  written  in  1874.  Most  of  his  work  prior  to 
this  time  was  not  above  mediocrity,  and  therefore 
hardly  need  be  passed  in  review.  It  was  the  pres- 
tige that  this  poem  gave  its  author  that  subse- 
quently won  for  him  the  distinction  of  being  invited 
to  write  the  Centennial  Cantata.  (That  poem,  how- 
ever, did  not  add  to  his  reputation.)  The  theme 
of  "Corn"  is,  in  its  nature,  prosaic  enough ;  and  yet 
the  author  invested  this  commonplace  subject  with 
a  poetic  air  and  coloring,  weighing  the  respective 
claims  of  both  corn  and  cotton  upon  the  attention 
of  the  farmer  and  pointing  out  the  disastrous  re- 
sults of  speculation.  Lanier  could  hardly  resist  the 
temptation  which  his  theme  offered  of  pointing  a 
moral.  Here,  as  so  frequently  in  his  poems,  like 
Wordsworth  when  not  at  his  best,  he  lapses  into 
didacticism,  apparently  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
didacticism  is  a  relentless  foe  to  poetry  of  the  first 
water.  Lanier  was  not,  however,  the  first  to  write 
upon  such  a  theme  as  corn.  The  path  had  been 
blazed  out  before  by  Whittier.  But  it  is  to  be  said 
to  Lanier's  credit  that  he  surpassed  his  predecessor 
in  poetic  conception  and  technical  execution. 

"Corn"  was  quickly  followed  by  "The  Sym- 
phony," a  poem  no  less  unique  than  beautiful,  in 
which  the  author  expresses  through  the  musical 
instruments  as  speakers  his  own  ferlings  and  senti- 


SIDNEY   LANIER  357 

ments.  Here  he  portrays,  under  the  guise  of  a  dia- 
logue between  the  instruments,  Ilic  deadening  effect 
of  the  trade-spirit  upon  the  human  heart  and  affec- 
tions and  suggests  as  the  remedy  for  the  heartless- 
ness  of  trade  more  love  for  humanity.  Indeed,  the 
key-note  of  the  poem  is  love,  which  is  struck  by  the 
violins  in  the  very  first  couplet : 

"O  Trade!  O  Trade!  would  thou  wert  dead! 
The  Time  needs  heart — 'tis  tired  of  head." 

Love  is  the  specific  for  all  the  ills  of  trade.  It 
is  this  point  that  reconciles  the  poor  even  to  their 
contracted  and  narrow  life,  as  they  long  for  a 
broader,  a  fuller  life.  It  is  this  that  brings  man  in 
closer  touch  with  nature  and  puts  him  also  in  har- 
mony with  nature's  God.  It  is  this  that  leads  to 
purity,  not  only  in  woman  but  also  in  man,  and 
beckons  and  allures  both  man  and  woman  to  a 
higher  and  nobler  life.  In  a  word,  the  poem  is  an 
attempt  to  put  in  graceful,  poetic  form  the  second 
great  commandment  of  the  Gospel,  "Love  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself;"  and  the  musician-poet  closes 
it  with  that  beautiful  line, 

"Music  is  love  in  search  of  a  word." 

Lanier  felt,  and  felt  keenly,  the  sentiment  he 
expressed  in  "The  Symphony."  In  a  letter  to  Judge 
Bleckley  he  says  concerning  the  trade-spirit: 
"Trade  has  now  had  possession  of  the  civilized 
world  for  four  hundred  years ;  it  controls  all  things, 
it  interprets  the  Bible,  it  guides  our  national  and 
almost  all  our  individual  life  with  its  maxims ;  and 
its  oppressions  upon  the  moral  existence  of  man 
have  come  to  be  ten  thousand  times  more  grievous 
than  the  worst  tyrannies  of  the  feudal  system  ever 


358 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


were.  Thus,  in  the  reversal  of  time,  it  is  now  the 
gentleman  who  must  rise  and  overthrow  Trade. 
That  chivalry  which  every  man  has,  in  some  degree, 
in  his  heart ;  which  does  not  depend  upon  birth,  but 
which  is  a  revelation  from  God  of  justice,  of  fair 
dealing,  of  scorn  of  mean  advantages;  which  con- 
temns the  selling  of  stock  which  one  knows  is  going 
to  fall  to  a  man  who  believes  it  is  going  to  rise,  as 
much  as  it  would  contemn  any  other  form  of  ras- 
cality, or  of  injustice,  or  of  meanness;  it  is  this 
which  must  in  these  latter  days  organize  its  insur- 
rections and  burn  up  every  one  of  the  cunning 
moral  castles  from  which  Trade  sends  out  its  forays 
upon  the  conscience  of  modern  society." 

In  his  "Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,"  published  in 
1877,  the  poet  showed  his  mastery  of  an  art  as  beau- 
tiful as  it  is  rare.  The  charming  lilt  and  melody  of 
this  song  place  it  second  only  to  Tennyson's 
"Brook,"  and  its  music  haunts  the  memory  almost 
as  powerfully  as  Poe's  "Ulalume."  In  the  last 
stanza  is  seen  an  example  of  the  poet's  intense 
moral  earnestness : 


"But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :    I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main. 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  over  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall." 

In  the  "Revenge  of  Ilninisli,"  published  a  yr;ir 
after  the  "Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,"  Lanier  es- 
sayed a  ii<*\v  field  of  poetic  art,  that  of  the  ballad; 
and  in  this  new  venture  he  achieved,  by  the  vivid- 


SIDNEY   LANIER  359 

ness  of  the  conception  and  the  musical  flow  of  the 
language,  such  high  success  as  to  challenge  com- 
parison with  the  very  lines!  ballads  in  English  lit- 
erature. But  it  was  in  the  "Marshes  of  Glynn"  that 
he  produced  his  most  original  poem,  at  least  in  con- 
ception. The  theme  itself  is  surely  unpoetic  enough 
— a  dreary  marsh  such  as  one  may  see  in  Southern 
Georgia — and  yet  the  poet,  by  his  glowing  imagina- 
tion and  sympathetic  love  of  nature,  has  idealized 
it,  and  out  of  this  vast  dreary  waste  of  water  has 
built  up  an  inspiring  poem  upon  the  illimitable 
greatness  of  God. 

"As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God : 

I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies, 
By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a  hold  on  the  greatness  of  God : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The   range   of  the   marshes,   the   liberal   marshes  of 
Glynn." 

Another  poem  which  is  indebted  for  its  inspira- 
tion to  the  same  source  as  the  "Marshes  of  Glynn" 
is  "Sunrise,"  a  wonderful  poem  if  we  consider  the 
circumstances  of  its  composition,  written  when  the 
author's  fever  temperature  registered  one  hundred 
and  four  degrees  and  he  was  nearing  the  end  of  his 
brief  life.  "Sunrise"  shows  to  a  still  more  astonish- 
ing extent  even  than  the  "Marshes  of  Glynn"  the 
poet's  mastery  of  the  technical  beauties  of  rhythm 
and  his  unfailing  love  of  nature,  which  amounted 
almost  to  a  passion.  In  the  concluding  stanza  of 
this  poem  Lanier  gives  expression  to  his  unswerv- 
ing devotion  to  art : 


360  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  knowl- 
edge abide  thee, 
And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried 

thee, 

Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art — till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done." 

He  saw  that  sun  with  a  clear  vision,  undimnied 
by  the  mists  and  damps  of  his  hard-cast  life,  when 
his  day  was  done.  And  that  sun  to  him  was  God, 
just  as  it  was  to  Turner,  the  great  English  land- 
scape painter,  who,  as  he  lay  dying  and  beheld  the 
sun  through  the  London  mists,  exclaimed,  "The  Sun 
is  God." 

One  of  Lanier's  most  exquisitely  beautiful  and 
delicate  poems  is  that  to  his  wife's  eyes,  "My 
Springs."  Indeed,  there  is  scarcely  a  finer  poem  of 
its  kind  in  the  whole  range  of  English  literature. 
It  is  too  long  to  quote  in  its  entirety,  and  to  give 
simply  a  selection  would  be  to  mutilate  it.  Another 
snatch  of  song,  written  in  his  early  days,  is  the  "Be- 
trayal," which  may  be  here  quoted : 

"The  sun  has  kissed  the  violet  sea, 

And  burned  the  violet  to  a  rose. 
O  Sea !  Would'st  thou  not  better  be 

Mere  violet  still  ?    Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ? 
Well  hides  the  violet  in  the  wood ; 
The  dead  leaf  wrinkles  her  a  hood, 
And  winter's  ill  is  violet's  good; 
But  the  bold  glory  of  the  rose, 
It  quickly  comes  and  quickly  goes — 
Red  petals  whirling  in  white  snows, 
Ah,  me! 

"The  sun  has  burnt  the  rose-red  sen  : 
The  rose  is  turned  to  ashes  gray. 
O  Sea,  O  Sea,  mightst  thou  but  be 
The  violet  thou  hast  been  to-day ! 


SIDNKV    LANIER  361 

The  sun  is  brave,  the  sun  is  bright, 
The  sun  is  lord  of  love  and  light; 
Hut  after  him  it  coincth  night. 
Dim  anguish  of  the  lonesome  dark! 
Once  a  girl's  body,  stitf  and  stark, 
Was  laid  in  the  tomb  without  a  mark, 
Ah,  me! 

Lanier's  poetry  was  inspired  by  the  muse  of 
Christendom.  Not  that  it  breathes  an  introspective 
or  mystical  air,  which,  as  Heyne  thought,  tended  to 
chill  and  ultimately  to  freeze  the  Homeric  gods ;  nor 
that  it  is  Avhat  is  technically  called  religious  poetry, 
such  as  the  work  of  Watts  or  Wesley.  Lanier  drew 
his  inspiration  from  the  New  Testament ;  his  poetry 
teaches  an  evangel  of  love.  His  entire  work  is  so 
shot  through  with  this  sentiment  as  to  render  selec- 
tions for  illustration  quite  unnecessary.  It  fur- 
nishes the  motif  of  his  poem,  "How  Love  Looked  for 
Hell/7  and  occurs  in  "Absence,"  where  he  says  that 
love  is  the  redeeming  quality  of  life  that  makes  it 
worth  living. 

"When  life's  all  love,  'tis  life;  aught  else,  'tis  naught." 

Endowed  with  so  noble  a  gift  of  heart,  he  ever 
strove  to  inculcate  a  broader  and  more  catholic  love 
and  a  larger  tolerance  on  the  part  of  Christians. 
Witness  here  his  "Remonstrance."  He  has  left  us 
his  own  ennobling  conception  of  Christ  in  the 
"Crystal."  Nor  was  he  content  to  preach  this  gospel 
of  love  simply.  He  also  practiced  it  and  lived  it 
before  others.  It  colored  his  very  conception  of 
beauty  and  art.  Nay,  he  regarded  love  as  insep- 
arably linked  writh  these.  Probably  no  artist  ever 
invested  his  calling  with  more  sacredness  than  did 
he.  Like  the  Hebrew  seer  of  old,  his  soul  was  kindled 


362  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

to  ecstatic  enthusiasm  by  the  "beauty  of  holiness ;" 
and  he  loved  these  words,  his  biographer  tells  us, 
and  liked  to  reverse  the  phrase  and  speak  of  the 
"holiness  of  beauty."  In  his  glowing  admiration  of 
this  sentiment  he  reminds  us  of  Milton  and  Kuskin. 
Lecturing  before  the  students  of  the  Johns  Hopkins 
University,  he  said : 

So  far  from  dreading  that  your  moral  purpose  will 
interfere  with  your  beautiful  creation,  go  forward  in 
the  clear  conviction  that  unless  you  are  suffused — soul 
and  body,  one  might  say — with  that  moral  purpose 
which  finds  its  largest  expression  in  love;  that  is,  the 
love  of  all  things  in  their  proper  relation ;  unless  you 
are  suffused  with  this  love,  do  not  dare  to  meddle  with 
beauty;  unless  you  are  suffused  with  beauty,  do  not 
dare  to  meddle  with  love ;  unless  you  are  suffused  with 
truth,  do  not  dare  to  meddle  with  goodness ;  in  a  word, 
unless  you  are  suffused  with  truth,  wisdom,  goodness 
and  love,  abandon  the  hope  that  the  ages  will  accept 
you  as  an  artist. 

After  a  careful  review  of  Lanier's  poetry  the  con- 
viction is  irresistible  that  he  was  intensely  in  earn- 
est. He  was  no  "idle  singer  of  an  empty  day,"  to 
use  Morris7  phrase — a  poet,  by  the  way,  with  whose 
conception  of  the  poetic  mission  Lanier  had  little 
sympathy.  He  looked  upon  the  mission  of  a  poet 
as  sacred  a  thing  as  the  office  of  an  ancient  Hebrew 
prophet.  In  answer  to  the  question,  What  avails  a 
poet?  he  replies: 

"He  beareth  starry  stuff  about  his  wings 
To  pollen  thee  and  sting  thee  fertile." 

It  was  no  doubt  the  man's  intense  earnestness  of 
purpose  that  led  Stedman  to  tax  him  with  magnify- 
ing his  office  as  poet.  But  he  took  equally  as  serious 
a  view  of  the  life  of  an  artist.  In  the  intensity  of 


SIDXKY    LAM  Mil  363 

the  moral  purpose  of  his  message  to  mankind  he 
reminds  us  of  the  nature-intoxicated  Lucretius, 
whom  he  studied  and  ardently  admired,  or  better 
si  ill,  perhaps,  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  prophet, 
Isaiah.  For,  as  Callaway  lias  said,  Lanier  was 
something  of  a  Hebrew  in  his  love  of  righteousness 
and  something  of  a  Hellene  in  his  love  of  beauty. 

Such,  then,  was  Lanier  the  poet.  Not  a  great 
poet,  assuredly,  in  the  sense  that  any  poem  of  his 
is  entitled  to  rank  with  that  class  of  literature 
which  Goethe  called  "welt  litteratur;"  and  yet  a 
poet  who  interpreted  life  truly  as  far  as  he  did  in- 
terpret it,  as  far  as  his  range  extended.  He  pos- 
sessed some  of  the  elements  of  a  great  poet.  He 
had  a  love  of  music  as  passionate  as  Milton's.  But 
his  genius,  alas!  was  too  much  trammeled  by  the 
sad  circumstances  of  his  outward  life,  and  this  pre- 
vented him  from  becoming  a  great  poet  in  utter- 
ance. Nevertheless,  he  is  entitled  to  be  classed  with 
the  very  first  American  poets  and  is  eminently 
worthy  of  a  permanent  place  in  the  heart  and  affec- 
tion of  the  American  people. 


LANIER 
LIFE  AND  SONG 

If  life  were  caught  by  a  clarionet, 

And  a  wild  heart,  throbbing  in  the  reed, 

Should  thrill  its  joy  and  trill  its  feet, 
And  utter  its  heart  in  every  deed, 

Then  would  this  breathing  clarionet 
Type  what  the  poet  fain  would  be ; 

For  none  of  the  singers  ever  yet 
Has  wholly  lived  his  minstrelsy, 

Or  clearly  sung  his  true,  true  thought, 
Or  utterly  bodied  forth  this  life, 

Or  out  of  life  and  song  has  wrought 
The  perfect  one  of  man  and  wife; 

Or  lived  and  sung,  that  Life  and  Song 
Might  each  express  the  other's  all. 

Careless  if  life  or  art  were  long, 
Since  both  were  one  to  stand  or  fall : 

So  that  the  wonder  struck  the  crowd, 
Who  shouted  it  about  the  land: 

His  song  was  only  living  aloud, 
His  work,  a  singing  with  his  hand. 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  clean  forspent. 
Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 
Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 


SIDNEY  LANIEB  365 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  him, 
The  little  gr:i.v  leaves  were  kind  to  him; 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  him 

When  into  the  woods  he  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
And  he  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 
When  death  and  shame  would  woo  him  last, 
From  under  the  trees  they  drew  him  last ; 

'Twas-  on  a  tree  they  slew  him — last, 

When  out  of  the  woods  he  came. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  reach  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


366  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habershain, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersliam, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  alone — 
Crystals  clear  or  acloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  s*tone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  Valley  of  Hall. 

But,  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  duty  call- 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


FROM  THE  FLATS. 

What  heart-ache — ne'er  a  hill! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague  and  chill 
The  drear  sand  levels  drain  my  spirit  low. 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  me  all  they  know; 


SIDNEY  LANIER  367 

Whereat  their  stupid  tongues,  to  tease  my  pain, 
Do  drawl  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  hear!  with  griefs  I  cannot  name: 
Always  the  same,  the  same. 

Nature  hath  no  surprise, 
No  ambuscade  of  beauty  'gainst  mine  eyes 
From  brake  or  lurking  dell  or  deep  defile ; 
No  humors,  frolic  forms — this  smile,  that  smile; 
No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley  hopes- 
Beyond  the  bend  of  roads,  the  distant  slopes. 
Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run  tame: 

Ever  the  same,  the  same. 

Oh  might  I  through  these  tears 
But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia  high  uprears, 
Where  white  the  quarts  and  pink  the  pebble  shine, 
The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the  muscadine 
Swings  o'er  the  slope,  the  oak's  far-falling  shade 
Darkens  the  dogwood  in  the  bottom  glade, 
And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny  nook 

Lull  sings  a  little  brook ! 

) 

A  SONG  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast, 

Ark  of  my  hopes,  Ark  of  my  dreams; 
Sweep  lordly  o'er  the  drown'd  Past, 
Fly  glittering  through  the  sun's  strange  beams ; 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast. 

Breaths  of  new  buds  from  off  some  drying  lea 
With  news  about  the  Future  scent  the  sea; 
My  brain  is  beating  like  the  heart  of  Haste ; 
I'll  loose  me  a  bird  upon  this  Present  waste : 

Go,  trembling  song, 
And  stay  not  long ;  oh,  stay  not  long : 
Thou'rt  only  a  gray  and  sober  dove, 
But  thine  eye  is  faith  and  thy  wing  is  love. 


368  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


EVENING  SONG 

Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea; 

How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands : 
Ah!  longer,  longer,  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.  'Tis  done : 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven' 
heart ; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands. 
O  night!  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart — 

Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 


SELECTION  FKOM  THE  MAKSHES  OF  GLYNN 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 

Somehow  my  sould  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of 

sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing — with- 
holding and  free 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 

the  sea ! 
Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and 

the  sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath 
mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge,  and  good  out  of  infinite 

pain, 

And  sight  out  of  blindness,  and  purity  out  of 
a  stain. 


SIDNEY   LANIER  369 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  (lie  watery 
sod, 

Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness 
of  God ; 

I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh- 
hen  flies 

In  the  freedom  that  iills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 
and  the  skies: 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in 
the  sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness 
of  God: 

Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  great- 
ness within 

The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes 
of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh;  lo,  out  of  his 
plenty  the  sea 

Pours  fast;  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood- 
tide  must  be : 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  chan- 
nels that  flow 

Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 

Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and 
the  low-lying  lanes, 

And  that  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences 

flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun! 
The  creeks  overflow ;  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of  the  mars-h- 

grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward 

whirr ; 

Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to 
run; 

And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 


370  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 

The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height ; 

And  it  is  night. 

v\nd  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 
sleep 

Koll  in  on  the  souls  of  men; 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  conies  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvelous  marshes 
of  Glynn. 

( The  above  selections  are  from  "Poems  of  Sidney 
Lanier,"  copyrighted  1884  and  1891  by  Mary  D. 
Lanier  and  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. ) 


CHAPTER  XV 
WALT    WHITMAN 

Walter  Whitman,  familiarly  called  Walt  Whit- 
man, after  his  own  practice  of  signing  his  name,  is 
;iii  author  whom  the  critic  of  American  literature 
cannot  ignore,  however  vigorously  he  may  reject 
the  Good  Gray  Poet's  avowed  poetic  theory  and 
technique.  No  American  writer  has  ever  ap- 
proached even  remotely  this  bold  iconoclast  in  ut- 
terly discarding  all  the  time-honored  literary  tradi- 
tions and  conventions.  For  in  his  verse  especially 
Whitman  set  at  naught  all  the  canons  of  art  and 
poetic  expression  sanctioned  by  the  ages  and  openly 
debased  the  artistic  and  spiritual  in  his  effort  to 
exalt  the  mere  commonplace  and  physical.  The 
result  was,  he  divided  the  critics  into  two  hostile 
schools  and  arrayed  them  against  each  other.  The 
one  school  set  him  up  as  a  paragon  of  excellence, 
bestowing  upon  him  unstinted  and  indiscriminate 
praise;  the  other  went  to  the  opposite  extreme  of 
denying  him  all  poetic  gift  and  utterance.  In  con- 
sequence, Whitman  has  suffered  in  reputation,  no 
doubt,  both  at  the  hands  of  his  admiring  friends 
and  of  his  relentless  detractors.  But  as  the  years 
go  by  and  the  personal  element  is  gradually  elimi- 
nated, the  scholarly  world  will  come  to  weigh  the 
poet  accurately  and  without  prejudice  or  passion, 
and  estimate  him  at  his  proper  worth. 

Whitman  came  of  mixed  New  England  and  Dutch 
stock  and  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  in 
1819.  His  father,  who  was  a  carpenter,  moved  his 
family  to  Brooklyn  when  Walter  was  only  five  years 


372  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

old,  but  moved  back  again  before  the  boy  was  out  of 
his  teens.  But  while  he  was  living  in  Brooklyn, 
young  Whitman  had  frequent  opportunity  to  visit 
the  scenes  of  his  childhood ;  and  he  was  always  glad 
to  return  to  his  Long  Island  home  and  feast  his 
soul  upon  the  natural  beauty  of  the  country.  The 
Long  Island  landscape  made  a  deep  and  lasting 
impression  upon  the  young  poet's  mind,  and  his 
imagination  and  perceptions  were,  no  doubt,  kin- 
dled and  quickened  by  his  close  contact  with  nature. 
His  father  having  a  large  family  to  care  for  and 
only  a  meagre  income,  young  Walter  received 
merely  a  common-school  education  and  had  to  shift 
for  himself  at  an  early  age.  When  but  thirteen 
years  old  he  entered  a  printer's  office  and  learned  to 
set  up  type.  Three  years  later  we  find  him  teaching 
school  on  Long  Island  and  "boarding  around"  in 
the  country.  This  afforded  him  ample  opportunity 
to  study  human  nature  both  in  school  and  out.  But 
he  soon  grew  tired  of  this  experience  and  sought  a 
change.  He  then  fell  back  "upon  his  early  occupa- 
tion, and  so,  for  the  twelve  years,  he  plied  his  trade 
as  a  printer.  He  also  wrote  for  some  of  the  New 
York  papers  and  mingled  freely  with  the  people 
wherever  he  happened  to  be,  entering  fully  into 
their  everyday  life.  He  made  friends  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  and  studied  their  character 
and  manner  of  living  at  close  range.  From  princi- 
ple he  became  a  frequenter  of  theatres  and  fac- 
tories and  a  regular  patron  of  the  ferries  and  omni- 
buses, in  order  to  gain  a  deeper  insight  into  the  life 
of  the  plain  people,  the  masses.  This,  however,  was 
no  passing  whim,  but  his  chosen  method  of  collect- 
ing material  in  his  notebook  :md  of  obtaining  a 
more  thorough  knowledge  of  the  life  of  (he  common 
people  which  he  was  to  undertake  in  due  time  to 
describe. 


WALT  WHITMAN  373 

Whitman  possessed  a  strong,  burly  physique  and 
a  nature  which  craved  outdoor  life,  anyway,  and  he 
was  resolved  to  gratify  his  desire.  He  reveled  in 
sunshine  and  fresh  air.  His  fondness  for  ouUloor 
life  he  had  inherited  along  with  his  robust  constitu- 
tion from  his  vigorous  parents.  In  her  youth,  his 
mother — a  Miss  Van  Elsor,  of  Dutch  descent,  as  the 
name  indicates — was  "a  daily  and  daring"  horse- 
back rider,  and  spent  much  of  her  time  in  the  open 
air;  and  his  father,  like  his  grandfather,  a  thrifty 
Long  Island  farmer,  had  by  reason  of  his  occupa- 
tion always  led  an  active  outdoor  life.  The  typical 
portrait  of  Walt  Whitman  also  is  that  of  a  strong, 
healthy  man  clad  in  home-spun  and  an  outing  shirt 
with  open  collar,  trousers  stuffed  down  his  boots 
and  a  slouch  hat  upon  a  bushy  head  of  patriarchal 
gray  locks.  The  figure  itself  is  suggestive  of  the 
hay  field  and  the  meadow  and  is  far  removed  from 
that  ordinarily  associated  with  urban  life. 

Notwithstanding  Whitman's  roving  disposition 
and  his  habit  of  living  outdoors,  still  he  found 
some  time  for  reading.  He  enjoyed  no  formal  aca- 
demic training,  to  be  sure;  yet  he  was  fond  of 
literature  and  had  an  appreciation  for  good  books, 
which  he  read  with  intense  interest  and  zest.  He 
prized  his  few  books  all  the  more  highly  because  his 
limited  means  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  obtain 
books,  when  a  boy.  It  is  interesting  to  note  what 
books  engaged  the  attention  of  this  callow  youth. 
As  he  tells  us  in  his  own  wrords,  "In  the  presence  of 
outdoor  influences,  I  w-ent  over  thoroughly  the  Old 
and  New  Testaments  and  absorbed  Shakespeare, 
Ossian,  the  best  translated  versions  I  could  get  of 
Homer,  Aeschylus,  Sophocles,  the  old  German  Nie- 
bolungen,  the  ancient  Hindoo  poems  and  one  or 
two  other  masterpieces,  Dante  among  them.  As  it 
happened,  I  read  the  latter  mostly  in  an  old  wood." 


374  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Surely  this  young  man  was  wisely  directed  in  the 
choice  of  his  books  for  reading,  and  his  range  was 
sufficiently  wide  to  afford  him  no  small  acquaint- 
ance with  the  best  literature. 

Thus  Whitman  absorbed  some  of  the  world's  mas- 
terpieces in  literature,  amid  the  outdoor  influences, 
jis  lie  roamed  over  the  fields  and  along  the  seashore 
of  his  beloved  Long  Island,  or  Paumanok,  the 
Indian  name,  which  he  preferred.  "I  roamed,  as 
boy  and  man,"  to  quote  his  own  language,  "and 
have  lived  in  nearly  all  parts,  from  Brooklyn  to 
Montauk."  His  early  life  was  so  intimately  identi- 
fied with  Long  Island  that,  as  he  affirmed,  he  had 
practically  incorporated  it  into  his  very  being  while 
lie  inhaled  its  atmosphere  and  mingled  with  its 
people.  Iii  his  cross-country  rambles  he  hobnobbed 
with  the  sturdy  farmer  folk  and  learned  to  look  at 
life  from  their  sober  point  of  view.  He  liked  also 
to  roam  along  the  seashore,  talking  with  the  plain 
fishermen,  and  to  enter  into  their  life.  The  un- 
ceasing moan  of  the  sea  itself  and  the  myriad  forms 
of  life  peculiar  to  it  exercised  over  him  a  wonderful 
1'asciuation  and  appealed  very  keenly  to  his  respon- 
sive nature.  He  haunted  the  beach  and  saw  the 
remains  of  many  a  wreck  washed  ashore.  He  used 
to  run  along  for  miles,  naked,  on  the  firm  sand, 
declaiming  Homer  and  Shakespeare  to  the  surf  and 
the  sea-gulls.  When  a  boy,  he  would  spend  day 
.after  day  gathering  the  <•-->  of  sea-gulls,  digging 
clams,  or  spearing  ells  through  the  ice.  lie  chron- 
icled these  early  experiences  in  his  ''Specimen 
Days,"  and  here  he  also  tells  US  of  his  formative 

Influences. 

Whitman's  career  cannot  be  termed  uneventful. 
He  was  successively  printer,  newspaper  writer  and 
editor.  As  a  roving  printer  he  traveled  leisurely 
over  the  entire  country  east  of  the  \li--issippi — a 


WALT  WHITMAN  .       375 

trip  of  8,000  miles  about,  made  for  the  most  part  on 
foot.  He  worked  his  way  along,  relying  upon  his 
trade  for  his  daily  bread.  At  one  time  he  was 
employed  on  (he  ttnutkljin.  /></////  Vut/Ie  and  at  an- 
other on  the  New  Orleans  Da  Hi/  Crescent.  Hut 
wherever  he  went,  he  made  friends  in  the  class  of 
society  called  the  common  people.  He  always 
moved  in  obscure  society  throughout  his  whole  life, 
for  the  mat  lei-  of  thai.  Vet  during  his  irdinlcr/dlirc, 
as  in  his  later  life,  he  had  a  warm,  sympathetic 
heart  and  a  quick,  observant  eye,  and  he  took  the 
pains  to  jot  down  his  impressions  for  future  use. 
He  subsequently  incorporated  them  into  his  famous 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  or  set  them  forth  in  his  "Speci- 
men Days." 

Upon  his  return,  Whitman  took  up  his  residence 
in  New  York  and  Brooklyn,  leading  a  happy-go- 
lucky  sort  of  life,  and  was  a  familiar  figure  about 
the  hotels  and  theatres.  His  favorite  resort  was 
Pfaf  s  restaurant,  on  Broadway,  where  he  would 
sip  beer  and  chat  with  the  literary  lights  of  the 
day.  Always  an  enthusiastic  patron  of  the  theatre 
and  the  opera,  he  declared  that,  as  a  boy  and  young 
man,  he  had  seen  all  of  Shakespeare's  plays  pre- 
sented, at  one  time  or  another,  "reading  them  care- 
fully the  day  beforehand."  He  used  frequently  to 
hear  Charlotte  Cushman  and  the  Elder  Booth  in 
their  leading  roles,  or  listen  to  the  soul-stirring 
notes  of  Jenny  Lind.  For  music  and  the  drama 
were  with  him  a  principle  and  a  passion,  and  he 
depended  upon  these  twin  handmaids  of  culture  to 
supplement  in  some  measure  the  deficiency  of  his 
early  training. 

With  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  a  change 
came  over  the  current  of  Whitman's  dreams.  His 
brother,  an  officer  in  the  Fifty-first  New  York  Vol- 
unteers, being  wounded  near  Fredericksburg,  Vir- 


376 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


ginia,  Walt  immediately  left  home  and  set  out  for 
the  camp  hospital  to  nurse  him.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  his  work  of  mercy  as  an  army  nurse, 
and  from  that  time  till  well-nigh  the  end  of  the  war 
he  was  actively  engaged  in  the  camp  hospitals  in 
Virginia  and  Washington.  His  ministries  were  of 
unfailing  tenderness  and  devotion  to  the  sick  and 
wounded.  He  gave  cheerfully  of  his  own  means 
and  solicited  subscriptions  from  various  sources  to 
contribute  to  the  comfort  of  the  needy  sick.  He 
spent  himself  in  relieving  human  suffering,  now 
supplying  a  dainty  dish  to  tempt  a  languid  appetite, 
now  dressing  a  wound,  at  one  time  writing  a  fare- 
well letter  for  some  doomed  soldier,  at  another  time 
reading  the  Bible  and  giving  spiritual  comfort  to 
some  dying  one.  He  actually  sacrificed  his  own 
robust  health  in  his  untiring  efforts  to  minister  to 
the  sick  and  dying. 

Whitman's  war  record  is  the  finest  chapter  in  his 
life,  and  is  a  veritable  inspiration.  It  furnishes 
indubitable  evidence  of  the  humane  and  noble  quali- 
ties of  his  heart — his  abounding  sympathy  and  his 
absolute  self-abandonment.  It  is  this  element  in 
his  character  which  lends  additional  interest  to  his 
biography  and  which  inspired  all  that  is  really  good 
in  his  verse.  For  much  of  his  verse  did  really  spring 
from  the  generous  promptings  of  his  noble  heart, 
and  is  marked  by  a  broad  sympathy  with  humanity. 
But  the  poet  was  not  happy  in  the  manner  of  his 
utterance  and  expressed  his  thought  in  a  very  blunt, 
ungraceful  and  unattractive  style. 

The  war  made  upon  Whitman  a  profound  impres- 
sion. In  his  "Specimen  Days"  and  in  the  post- 
humous volume  of  letters  to  his  mother,  the  "Wound 
Dresser/'  especially,  he  depicts  \\-illi  characteristic 
graphic  effect  the  horrors  of  war  and  the  terrible 
suffering  it  entailed.  Although  he  had  not  seen 


WALT  WHITMAN  377 

actual  service  upon  the  battle-field,  still  he  had 
abundant  opportunity  as  a  nurse  in  the  camp  hos- 
pital (o  learn  something  of  the  frightful  aspect  of 
\\ar  in  the  thousands  of  wounded  he  saw;  and  he 
Avituessed  occasionally  upon  the  near-by  field  a  re- 
volting scene  of  carnage  and  destruction.  He  noted 
two  striking  spectacles  of  different  character  fur- 
nished by  the  Avar.  In  his  own  language,  they  were 
"the  general,  voluntary,  armed  upheaval,  and  the 
peaceful  and  harmonious  disbanding  of  the  armies 
in  the  summer  of  1865." 

Whitman  was  greatly  moved  by  the  assassination 
of  Lincoln,  of  whose  strong,  sturdy  and  noble  char- 
acter he  was  an  ardent  admirer.  The  news  of  the 
assassination  was  a  tremendous  shock  to  him,  and 
he  Avas  so  stunned  that  he  was  rendered  unfit  to 
attend  to  his  ordinary  daily  tasks.  He  happened  to 
be  at  home  with  his  mother  in  Brooklyn  at  the  time. 
Neither  he  nor  his  mother  could  eat  a  mouthful  the 
entire  day,  he  tells  us.  "We  each  drank  a  half  cup 
of  coffee;  that  was  all.  Little  was  said.  We  got 
eA^ery  neAvspaper,  morning  and  evening,  and  the  fre- 
quent extras  of  that  period,  and  passed  them  silently 
to  each  other."  After  the  cruel  shock  was  over, 
Whitman  gave  expression  to  his  melancholy  feelings 
in  that  pathetic  burial  hymn,  "When  Lilacs  last  in 
the  Door- Yard  Bloom'd,"  which  ranks  among  his 
most  beautiful  poems. 

Whitman's  strenuous  work  in  the  hospitals  im- 
posed upon  his  splendid  constitution  a  severer 
strain  than  nature  could  stand,  and  his  health  broke 
down.  After  the  recovery  of  his  health,  his  service 
as  an  army  nurse  was  recognized  in  his  appoint- 
ment to  a  government  clerkship  in  the  Department 
of  the  Interior.  But  he  held  his  new  post  only  a 
brief  while.  The  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  it  is 
alleged,  discovered  after  office  hours  a  copy  of 


378  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

"Leaves  of  Grass"  in  Whitman's  desk,  and,  believ- 
ing that  the  author  of  that  book  was  not  a  suitable 
person  to  hold  a  position  in  the  public  service,  sum- 
marily dismissed  him  from  the  Department.  How- 
ever, the  Attorney-General  did  not  share  tliis  view 
and  thought  that  there  was  no  sufficient  ground  for 
Whitman's  dismissal.  He  therefore  re-instated  him, 
giving  him  another  position  quite  as  good  as  that 
Whitman  had  filled  in  the  Department  of  the  In- 
terior. Within  a  few  weeks  after  this  incident 
Whitman  received  at  the  hands  of  his  enthusiastic 
admirer,  William  D.  O'Connor,  a  complete  literary 
vindication  in  the  scathing  pamphlet,  "The  Good 
Gray  Poet."  This  was  the  origin  of  the  poet's  now 
familiar  soubriquet  and  the  inauguration  of  the  era 
of  Whitman  worship. 

"Leaves  of  Grass"  was  first  published  in  Brook- 
lyn, in  1855,  the  author  himself  setting  up  most  of 
the  type.  Far  from  creating  a  sensation,  the  book 
came  into  the  world  still-born  and  made  no  impres- 
sion. It  is  said  that  not  a  copy  was  sold.  However, 
the  contents  of  this  slender  volume  of  verse  were 
original  and  startling  enough  to  have  attracted  at- 
tention. For  the  book  contained  a  new  evangel— 
the  doctrine  of  the  equality  of  the  body  with  the 
soul,  which  is  sheer  animalism.  The  author  set 
himself  the  task  of  presenting  a  complete  and  ade- 
quate picture  of  typical  humanity  in  this  new  coun- 
try of  ours,  with  its  untold  possibilities  of  material 
development,  under  democratic  influences.  His 
message  is  pre-eminently  democratic,  and  he  con- 
ceived his  mission  to  be  the  poet  of  the  people— 
the  masses.  But  of  this  more  anon.  Not  only  was 
his  evangel  new  and  unique,  but  the  poet  felt  that 
he  must  present  it  in  a  new  form.  He  therefore 
rejected  all  the  poetic  traditions,  discarding  rliymc 
and  all  metrical  restraints,  in  order  to  make  his 


WALT  WHITMAN  379 

practice  square  wiili  liis  theory  that  he  was  the  bard 
of  a  free  people  in  a  great  democratic  country,  un- 
t  ram  in  eled  by  Old  World  conventions.  He  actually 
went  so  far  as  to  eliminate  all  stock  poetic  phrases 
from  liis  verses,  in  order  to  present  his  system  un- 
impeded by  metrical  restrictions  of  any  sort. 

"Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  the  form  in  which  the  book 
first  appeared,  contained  only  twelve  poems.  The 
second  edition,  which  was  rather  an  expansion  of 
the  first  than  a  new  issue  simply,  contained  thirty- 
two  poems.  Like  its  predecessor,  it,  too,  met  with 
utter  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  reading  public. 
It  attracted  more  attention,  however,  from  the 
critics  and  was  severely  censured  by  those  who 
took  interest  enough  in  it  to  read  the  unique  little 
book.  Indeed,  some  went  to  the  length  of  threaten- 
ing to  prosecute  the  author  for  his  coarse,  indecent 
utterances  as  they  regarded  them,  and  even  the 
publishers  refused  to  sell  the  book.  Whitman  had 
unquestionably  expressed  his  new  system  of  life 
and  thought  with  startling  plainness  and  shocking 
directness  of  speech.  The  question  of  sexuality  in 
his  poems  was  the  chief  rock  of  offense.  Conse- 
quently, there  is  small  wonder  that  the  reviewers, 
almost  to  a  man,  indicated  their  unqualified  dis- 
approval of  the  poet's  offensive  treatment  of  un- 
poetic  themes.  They  also  objected  to  the  egoistic 
and  blatant  quality  of  his  verse. 

But  the  severe  censure  of  the  critics  did  not  put 
a  quietus  upon  Whitman's  muse  or  deter  him  from 
his  purpose  of  bringing  out  a  third  augmented  edi- 
tion of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass."  However,  he  did 
make  a  slight  concession  to  the  critics  by  culling 
out  all  the  offensive  lines  and  grouping  them  under 
the  bizarre  heading,  "Enfans  d'  Adams."  In  vain 
did  Emerson  expostulate  with  Whitman,  in  his 
notable  walk,  upon  his  too  plain  and  outspoken 


380  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

treatment  of  sexual  matters  in  the  "Leaves."  Whit- 
man resolutely  declined  to  remove  the  offending 
"Children  of  Adam"  poems,  and  later  affirmed  that 
though  Emerson's  arguments  for  removal  were  un- 
answerable, he  was  nevertheless  more  thoroughly 
convinced  that  these  poems  must  stand  unaltered. 
In  view  of  this  later  statement  by  Whitman  we 
are  forced  to  conclude  that  he  was  perfectly  candid 
and  sincere  in  writing  "Children  of  Adam"  in  the 
interest  of  morality,  whatever  we  may  think  of  the 
poet's  unpardonable  lack  of  judgment  and  violation 
of  the  canons  of  art  and  good  taste.  Apropos  of  the 
apparent  immorality  of  the  "Leaves,"  some  critic 
has  made  the  witty  comment  that  the  book  contains 
every  kind  of  a  leaf  but  the  fig  leaf. 

In  1866  Whitman  published  his  first  volume  of 
war  poems,  under  the  title  "Drum  Taps."  These 
poems  were,  for  the  most  part,  descriptive,  not  lyri- 
cal, and  grew  out  of  their  author's  observations  and 
experiences  during  the  Avar.  The  tender  and  touch- 
ing elegy  upon  Lincoln,  "When  Lilacs  last  in  the 
Dooryard  Bloom'd,"  was  appended  as  a  supple- 
ment. The  strong,  rugged  personality  of  the  great 
war  statesman  made  a  forceful  appeal  to  Whit- 
man's genius,  and,  somehow,  seemed  to  inspire  him 
to  his  noblest  lyrical  effort.  His  other  ode  to 
Lincoln  beginning  "O  Captain,  my  Captain!"  is  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  the  martyred  President,  as  stir- 
ring and  passionate  as  it  is  simple  and  spontaneous. 
Whitman's  war  poems,  unlike  his  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  were  above  reproach  on  the  score  of  mor- 
ality; and  the  offensive  characteristics  of  the  au- 
thor, such  as  his  egoism  and  his  blatancy,  are  not 
here  obtrusive,  but  are  held  in  abeyance.  "Drum 
Taps"  therefore  made  a  more  favorable  impression 
upon  the  reading  public  and  was  accorded  a  more 
cordial  reception  than  the  poet's  maiden  volume. 


WALT   WHITMAN  381 

Whitman  himself,  however,  esteemed  the  first  pro- 
duct of  his  invention  far  more  highly  than  any  other 
product  of  his  pen  and  bestowed  upon  it,  first  and 
last,  more  thought  and  labor  than  upon  all  his 
other  achievements  put  together.  For  he  regarded 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  his  nnnjnum  opus,  as  it  no  doubt 
was,  and  designed  it  to  express  his  message  to  the 
.world. 

In  1873  Whitman  sustained  an  attack  of  par- 
alysis, which  incapacitated  him  for  work,  and  so  he 
removed  from  Washington  to  Camden,  New  Jersey. 
At  this  juncture  his  mother  died,  to  whom  he  was 
devoted.  The  future  seemed  very  gloomy  then  to 
the  invalid  poet,  now  reduced  to  actual  want.  But 
his  friends  rallied  to  his  support  and  provided  for 
his  needs.  His  critics,  too,  relented  and  became 
more  sympathetic.  His  health  soon  improved  and 
he  was  again  able  to  travel  and  lecture.  He  sig- 
nalized the  year  1876  by  a  centennial  edition  of 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  two  volumes,  issued  privately 
and  containing  "DejpiQcratic  Vistas."  This  was  the 
sixth  augmented  edition  of  the  "book,  and  its  ap- 
pearance was  made  the  occasion,  by  the  Whitman- 
ites  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  of  the  awakening 
of  interest  in  the  Camden  bard.  The  seventh  edi- 
tion appeared  five  years  later,  in  Boston,  but  was 
suppressed  on  account  of  a  legal  prosecution  threat- 
ened against  the  alleged  obscene  passages  in  the 
book. 

In  1882  Whitman  published,  in  Philadelphia,  his 
prose  volume,  "Specimen  Days  and  Collect."  This 
is  chiefly  interesting  for  its  autobiographical  value 
and  as  a  commentary  upon  the  sage's  rationale  of 
poetry.  Here  he  reveals  to  the  world  a  chronicle  of 
the  dark  days  he  passed  through  when  his  health 
failed,  and  of  his  melancholy  meditations. 


382  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

In  1885  Whitman's  health  again  became  im- 
paired. But  he  nursed  it,  and  although  the  end 
seemed  imminent,  once  at  least  in  1888,  yet  he 
rallied  sufficiently  to  undertake  his  customary  light 
work  again.  During  the  intervals  of  fitful  work  he 
succeeded  in  writing  and  publishing  a  volume  of 
verse,  "November  Boughs,"  and  a  complete  edition 
of  his  works,  prose  and  poetry.  He  was  much 
cheered  and  gratified  with  the  hearty  greetings 
which  he  received  from  almost  all  parts  of  the 
world  upon  the  celebration  of  his  seventieth  birth- 
day. This  event  he  signalized  by  the  issue  of  a 
limited  edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  which 
included  an  autobiographical  sketch  in  prose  and  a 
small  collection  of  verses  entitled  "Sands  at  Sev- 
enty." In  1891  the  bard  gave  the  world  his  swan- 
song,  "The  Second  Annex,  Goodbye,  My  Fancy"; 
and  in  the  same  year  appeared  the  tenth  and  defini- 
tive re-issue  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass."  The  follow- 
ing year  the  poet  issued  a  complete  edition  of  his 
prose  works,  uniform  with  the  final  edition  of  the 
"Leaves."  On  March  26,  1892,~the  venerable  and 
patriarchal  poet  passed  away,  and  his  body  was  laid 
to  rest  in  the  massive  and  imposing  tomb  in  the 
cemetery  at  Camden,  which  he  had  designed  with 
his  own  hand. 

No  American  writer  has  so  sharply  divided  the 
world  of  scholars  as  Walt  Whitman  has  by  his 
writings,  and  even  yet  the  reviewers  have  but  little 
common  ground  to  stand  on  in  their  criticism  of  his 
works.  Swinburne  and  other  English  critics  were 
eulogizing  him  before  the  Good  Gray  Poet's  own 
countrymen  awoke  to  an  appreciation  of  his  merits ; 
and  even  now  some  eminent  scholars  decry  his  fame 
and  assure  us,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  wrote  noth- 
ing to  commend  him  to  favor.  Ever  since  the  first 
appearance  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  virulent  attacks 


WALT   WHITMAN  383 

have  been  made  upon  Whitman,  directed  especially 
against  his  egoism,  his  obscurity  and  his  obscenity. 
P>u(  there  was  not  wanting  a  host  of  warm  friends 
and  admiring  defenders  to  repel  the  attacks  of  his 
detractors  and  to  vindicate  the  poet's  reputation 
completely  from  these  damaging  charges.  Since 
his  death  the  Whitman  cult  has  spread  and  the 
coterie  of  his  devotees  has  labored  with  unabated 
zeal  to  herald  his  praise  far  and  wide.  Nor  has  the 
propaganda  been  confined  to  our  shores.  For  there 
are  many  Whitmanites  in  England  and  on  the  Con- 
tinent. As  a  result  of  the  unceasing  activity  of 
Whitman's  disciples  there  are  now  Whitman  Clubs,. 
Whitman  Fellowships,  a  Whitman  literary  organ 
and  a  formidable  array^of  Whitman  monographs 
and  essays,  an  ever-increasing  Whitman  bibliogra- 
phy. While  the  zeal  of  the  bard's  followers  may  be 
commendable,  their  excessive  and  indiscriminate 
adulation  has,  no  doubt,  contributed  to  prejudice 
many,  and  thus  has  done  positive  injustice  and  in- 
jury to  Whitman. 

Any  review  of  Whitman  must  concern  itself  pri- 
marily and  mainly  with  his  "Leaves  of  Grass/'  his 
greatest  triumph.  For  this  contains  his  message 
to  the  world,  his  philosophy  of  life,  his  ripest 
thought;  and,  as  intimated  before,  upon  it  the  au- 
thor bestowed  his  best  energy  and  unstinted  pains. 
He  elaborated  and  expanded  it  from  the  thin  quarto 
edition  of  1855  to  the  portly  final  edition  of  1891. 
In  it  he  sets  forth  his  theory  of  life  in  its  fullest 
and  broadest  sense, — physical,  mental  and  moral, — 
but  life  of  the  individual  as  environed  in  a  free, 
democratic  country,  the  United  States,  and  ex- 
pressed in  terms  of  absolute  frankness  and  direct- 
ness. But  let  the  poet  declare  his  purpose  in  his 
own  words,  in  the  preface  to  the  "Leaves  of  Grass" : 


384  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

The  theory  of  my  "Leaves  of  Grass"  [says  the 
writer],  is  to  thoroughly  possess  the  mind,  memory, 
cognizance  of  the  author  himself,  with  everything  be- 
forehand— a  full  armory  of  concrete  actualities,  obser- 
vations, humanity,  past  poems,  ballads,  facts,  tech- 
nique, war  and  peace,  politics,  north  and  south,  east 
and  west,  nothing  too  large  or  too  small,  the  sciences 
as  far  as  possible, — and  above  all  America  and  the 
present, — after  and  out  of  which  the  subject  of  the 
poem,  long  or  short,  has  been  invariably  turned  over  to 
his  Emotionality,  even  Personality,  to  be  shaped 
thence;  and  emerges  strictly  therefrom,  with  all  its 
merits  and  demerits  on  its  head.  Every  page  of  my  at- 
tempt at  poetic  utterance,  therefore,  smacks  of  the  liv- 
ing physical  identity,  date,  environment,  individuality, 
probably  beyond  anything  known,  and  in  style  often 
offensive  to  the  conventions. 

The  personal  note  is  distinctive  and  dominant  in 
the  "Leaves  of  Grass."  The  very  opening  lines 
indicate  Whitman's  intense  egoism,  which  is  re- 
flected in  every  page  of  the  remarkable  production. 
Whitman  had  a  profound  and  abiding  conviction, 
as  every  unbiased  reader  must  admit,  that  this 
poem  voiced  his  ripest  thought  and  his  conception 
of  the  philosophy  of  life.  It  is  this  conviction 
which  made  the  poet  so  frank  and  courageous  in 
the  expression  of  his  views.  Moreover,  he  had  the 
courage  of  his  convictions  and  therefore  positively, 
refused  to  modify  or  alter  the  form  and  manner  in 
which  he  first  gave  the  poem  to  the  world,  however 
offensive  to  good  taste  and  contrary  to  the  accepted 
traditions  of  poetry.  The  form,  too,  of  his  unique 
evangel  was  quite  as  unconventional  as  the  sub- 
si  ance.  Eschewing  all  the  received  forms  of  verse, 
he  chose  as  the  medium  of  his  thought  a  free  and 
lawless  kind  of  dithyramb  without  rhyme  or  metre. 


WALT   WHITMAN  385 

His  poetic  creed  was  in  direct  contravention  of  all 
the  time-honored  traditions. 

Whitman's  seriousness  of  purpose  led  him  into  a 
fundamental  error.  For  he  failed  to  realize  that 
the  poet  must  conform  to  certain  well-defined  prin- 
ciples of  art  in  the  representation  of  his  creative 
Imagination.  He  failed  to  see  that  there  are  cer- 
tain things  which  from  their  very  nature  do  not 
admit  of  poetic  treatment,  do  not  lend  themselves 
to  artistic  representation.  It  is  sheer  folly  to  at- 
tempt to  give  these  things  poetic  adornment.  It  is 
not  in  keeping  with  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  and 
is  contrary  to  every  principle  of  art.  Common 
sense  ought  to  dictate  this  even  if  one's  literary 
judgment  and  good  taste  should  fail  one  utterly. 
So  when  Whitman,  to  cite  a  specific  case,  in  his 
desire  to  exalt  the  body  calls  "the  scent  of  the 
armpits  aroma  diviner  than  prayer,"  he  simply 
shows  that  he  has  no  sure  sense  of  propriety  or  of 
the  fitness  of  things,  and  he  sins  egregiously  against 
the  canons  of  art.  He  betrays,  besides,  a  woeful 
lack  of  the  aesthetic  sense.  Yet  this  cannot  prop- 
erly be  regarded  immoral  as  some  of  the  critics 
assert.  Whitman  wrote  many  shocking  things,  but 
he  was  not  really  immoral. 

The  truth  is,  Whitman  was  wanting  in  due  appre- 
ciation of  good  form,  as  a  logical  result  of  his  plain 
breeding  and  Bohemian  manner  of  life,  and  his 
aesthetic  sense  was  not  fully  developed.  His  earn- 
est desire  to  exalt  the  body  as  glorious  and  to 
combat  the  mediaeval  notion  that  the  body  is  base 
and  unworthy  serious  consideration  led  him  to  take 
the  indefensible  position  that  the  entire  body  is 
sacred  and  therefore  all  its  functions  and  parts  are 
proper  subjects  for  poetic  treatment.  Of  course 
this  is  manifestly  absurd.  Needless  to  say  that  it 
showed  a  conspicuous  lack  of  the  art  instinct.  In 


386  MAKERS  OP  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

his  free  and  unrestrained  representation  of  the 
bodily  functions  Whitman  furnishes  unmistakable 
evidence  of  a  biased  sense  of  proportion.  No  ex- 
ception, however,  can  be  taken  to  some  of  his  utter- 
ances as  to  the  sacredness  of  the  human  body.  For 
some  of  these  are  excellent  of  their  kind,  as  for 
example,  the  following : 

"If  anything  is  sacred  the  human  body  is  sacred,  and 
the  glory  and  sweet  of  a  man  is  the  token  of  manhood 
untainted, 

And  in  man  or  woman  a  clean,  strong,  firm-fibered  body 
is  more  beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful  face." 

AVhitinan  is  a  difficult  writer  to  classify  with  any 
degree  of  confidence.  Nor  can  one  speak  with  any- 
thing approaching  assurance  as  to  his  ultimate 
place  in  American  literature.  His  work  is  very 
unequal.  There  are  dreary  wastes  of  mere  words 
which  make  the  reader  feel  like  closing  the  book  in 
disgust.  But  turn  one  page  more  perhaps  and  you 
may  find  a  superb  passage  of  impeccable  English 
and  almost  Hebraic  in  its  earnestness.  There  is 
imagination,  the  thought  is  elevating,  the  rhythm 
musical,  the  diction  well-nigh  perfect,  and  the  pas- 
sage is  excellent  in  every  particular.  But  the  in- 
terest is  not  sustained,  and  the  inspiration  is  inter- 
mittent. Sometimes  without  warning  the  bard  rises 
in  an  imaginative  passage  and  carries  the  reader 
aloft,  but  only  to  descend  again  quite  as  suddenly 
as  a  spent  rocket. 

There  is  much  in  Whitman  that  smacks  of  cant. 
Indeed,  there  is  in  him  so  much  of  something  akin 
t  t  hat  he  has  been  called  by  an  eminent  critic 
a  victim  of  cant.  His  undue  emphasis  of  the 
natural,  including  the  human  body,  has  been  con- 
sidered a  form  of  cant  simply,  as  likewise  his  con- 


WALT  WHITMAN  387 

tinual  harping  upon  (lie  theme  of  equality,  the  un- 
suitableness  of  European  art  to  American  needs 
and  his  stress  on  originality.  But  this  perhaps  was 
a  more  accessory  to  his  vole  as  the  singer  of 
American  democracy,  which  he  viewed  with  appar- 
ent complacency.  No  doubt,  in  the  last  analysis  his 
cant  will  be  found  to  have  sprung  from  his  lack  of 
culture  and  balance.  For  had  he  possessed  culture 
and  poise,  these  qualities  would  have  saved  him 
from  his  egoism  as  well  as  from  his  crudity  and  his 
shocking  want  of  good  form  and  propriety. 

From  affectation  or  some  other  reason,  Whitman 
appears  to  have  depreciated  culture  and  academic 
training.  Certainly  this  is  a  logical  inference  from 
his  writings.  As  far  as  his  poetry  is  concerned, 
even  his  staunchest  defenders  must  admit  that  its, 
intellectual  side  is  not  so  strong  as  its  emotional. 
Beyond  all  question,  the  author's  emotional  nature 
was  more  fully  developed  than  his  intellectual.  He 
was  passionately  fond  of  music  and  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  cultivate  his  appreciation  of  it.  Yet  he 
must  also  have  attained  a  considerable  degree  of 
intellectual  development,  as  is  evidenced  by  his  lit- 
erary achievement.  But  he  was  not  a  consecutive 
thinker.  His  thought  is  not  clear  and  it  would  be 
an  arduous  task  to  deduce  an  orderly  system  from 
his  writings.  His  poetry  is  marred  here  and  there 
by  carelessness  and  palpable  errors  in  the  use  of 
his  mother-tongue.  His  tedious  catalogues  and  his 
affectation  in  the  employment  of  foreign  phrases 
simply  serve  to  parade  and  advertise  his  immature 
scholarship.  The  effect  of  his  grand  "cosmic  emo- 
tions" is  frequently  spoiled  by  his  glaring  defects 
of  style.  Curiously  enough,  one  of  his  mannerisms 
was  to  interlard  his  diction  with  technical  terms 
and  foreign  expressions,  when  the  pure  Saxon  word 
would  have  been  much  more  effective  as  being 


388  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

readily  understood.  His  rhetoric,  too,  is  sometimes 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  mixed;  and  incongruous 
figures  are  jumbled  together,  presenting  no  clear, 
distinct  image. 

Whitman  is  at  his  best,  as  a  rule,  in  his  brief 
descriptive  poems.  Parts  of  the  "Passage  to  India" 
and  the  "Pioneers,"  and  such  poemjs  as  "Out  of  the 
Cradle  Endlessly  Kocking,"  "The  Ox-Tamer/7  "Of 
that  Blithe  Throat  of  Thine,"  "A  Clear  Midnight," 
"On  the  Beach  at  Night,"  and  his  noble  patriotic 
chants  on  Lincoln  are  well  expressed  and  exhibit 
spontaneity  and  beauty,  to  a  marked  degree.  He  is 
especially  happy  in  his  poems  describing  the  sea. 
The  strictures  upon  his  rhetoric  and  diction  do  not 
hold  in  the  case  of  his  best  poems,  which  are  gener- 
ally above  reproach  in  every  detail.  Here  his  con- 
ception is  vivid  and  realistic,  and  his  execution 
artistic  and  his  language  almost  matchless.  Here, 
too,  his  irregular  dithyrambic  verse,  largely  lawless 
and  inetreless,  approaches  to  regularity  and  be- 
comes rhythmical  and  highly  musical.  But  here,  to 
be  sure,  the  poet  is  inspired  and  rises  above  his  be- 
setting faults  of  style.  Here  it  is  that  he  challenges 
our  admiration  and  enchains  our  interest. 

Was  Whitman  then  a  great  poet?  Some  schol- 
arly and  eminent  critics  unhesitatingly  affirm  that  he 
was  and  adduce  a  mass  of  evidence  to  establish  their 
thesis.  Yet  others,  again,  quite  as  learned  and  cul- 
tured, maintain  that  he  was  not  a  great  poet,  and 
they  produce  abundant  evidence  in  support  of  their 
position.  Of  course,  in  a  question  at  issue  like  the 
present,  much  depends  upon  a  definition  of  terms. 
If  to  be  a  great  poet  is  primarily  to  voice  ade- 
quately the  ideals  and  aspirations  of  the  human 
heart  in  a  grand  and  inspiring  song,  then  there  is 
considerable  ground  for  doubt  whether  Whitman 
measures  up  to  the  standard  of  a  great  poet.  If, 


WALT    WHITMAN  389 

moreover,  to  be  a  great  poet  implies  the  possession 
of  an  innate  artistic  sense, — the  art  instinct, — so  as 
to  express  one's  thought  in  an  artistic  manner,  con- 
formable to  good  taste,  and  to  be  perfectly  natural 
withal,  then  Whitman  clearly  does  not  deserve  to 
be  classed  among  the  world's  great  poets.  For 
Whitman  has  not,  in  the  first  place,  produced  any 
grand  and  inspiring  poem  of  sustained  interest ;  nor 
does  he  possess,  in  the  second  place,  except  to  a  very 
limited  extent,  the  art  instinct.  But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  some  critics  hold,  to  be  a  great  poet  is 
simply  to  have  "vision  and  voice,  poetic  conceptions 
that  are  grand  and  high,  and  a  masterful  gift  of 
imaginative  utterance,"  then  Whitman  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  great  poet.  However,  it  can  hardly  be 
expected  that  the  present  generation  should  satis- 
factorily settle  this  question.  We  are  too  near 
Whitman's  life  and  times  to  have  the  true  perspec- 
tive and  to  divest  our  minds  of  prejudice  or  passion. 
We  must  leave  the  solution  of  this  question  to  pos- 
terity. Yet  we  must  admit  that  the  Camden  bard 
was  a  poet  in  the  received  acceptation  of  that  term. 
For  he  possessed  imagination,  passion,  insight, 
faith  and  the  gift  of  utterance. 


WHITMAN 
PIONEERS!  O  PIONEERS! 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready, 
Have  you  your   pistols?   have  you  your   sharp-edged 
axes? 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 
We  must  march,  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of 

danger, 

We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 
Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

O  you  youths,  Western  youths, 
So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and 

friendship, 

Plain  I  see  you,  Western  youths,  see  you  tramping  with 
the  foremost, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied  over  there 

beyond  the  seas? 

We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the 
lesson, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 
We   debouch   upon   a   newer   mightier   world,   varied 

world, 

Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor 
and  the  march, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 


WALT  WHITMAN  391 

AYo  (leinrlnmMils  steady  throwing 
Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountain 

steep, 

Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the 
unknown  ways, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

We  primeval  forests  felling. 
We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we  and  piercing  deep 

the  mines  within, 

We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil 
upheaving, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Colorado  men  are  we, 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the 

high  plateaus, 

From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting 
trail  we  come, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the 

continental  blood  intervein'd, 

All  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all 
the  Northern, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

O  resistless  restless  race! 
O  beloved  race  in  all !  O  my  breast  aches  with  tender 

love  for  all ! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Kaise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry 

mistress,  (bend  your  heads  all,) 

Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive, 
weapon'd  mistress, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 


392 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


See  my  children,  resolute  children, 
By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield  or 

falter, 

Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind 
us  surging, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 
With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the 

dead  quickly  filFd, 

Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and 
never  stopping, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

O  to  die  advancing  on ! 
Are  there  some  of  us  to  drop  and  die?  has  the  hour 

come? 

Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  snre  the 
gap  is  fill'd, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 
Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement 

beat, 

Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving  to  the  front, 
all  for  us, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Life's  involved  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their 

work, 

All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with 
their  slaves, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 
All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and 

the  wicked, 

All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the 
dying, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 


WALT   WHITMAN  393 

I  too  with  my  soul  and  body. 

Wo,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way. 
Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  ap- 
paritions pressing, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Lo,  the  darting  bowling  orb ! 
vLo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  suns 

and  planets, 

All   the    dazzling   days,   all   the   mystic   nights   with 
dreams, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there 

in  embryo  wait  behind, 

We  today's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel 
clearing, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West ! 
O  you  young  and  older  daughters!  O  you  mothers  and 

you  wives! 

Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move 
united, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies! 
( Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may  rest,  you  have 

done  your  work,) 

Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and 
tramp  amid  us, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Not  for  delectations  sweet, 
Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and 

the  studious, 

Not  the  riches-  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame 
enjoyment, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 


394  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast? 
Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep?  have  they  lock'd  and 

bolted  doors? 

Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the 
ground, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Has  the  night  descended  ? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome?  did  we  stop  discoui 

aged  nodding  on  our  way? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  tracks  to  pause 
oblivious, 

Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call — hark!  how  loud  an< 

clear  I  hear  it  wind, 
Swift !  to  the  head  of  the  army ! — swift !  spring  to  you] 
places, 

Pioneers !    O  Pioneers ! 


WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOOR-YARD 
BLOOM'D 

1 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloomed, 

And  the  great  star  early  dropped  in  the  western  sky  i 

the  night, 
I  mourned,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returnin 

spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in  the 

west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


O  powerful  western  fallen  star! 
O  shades  of  night — O  moody,  tearful  night  ! 
O  great  star  disappeared — O  the  black  murk  that  hid( 
the  star ! 


: 


WALT    WHIT  MAX  395 

()  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless  soul 

of  mo ! 
O  harsh  surrounding  (-loud  that  will  not  free  my  soul! 


In  the  door-yard  fronting  an  old  farm-house,  near  (lie 

whitewashed  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green. 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the 

perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle ; — and  from  this  bush  in  the 

door-yard, 
With    delicate    colored    blossoms,    and    heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settle- 
ments, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song — 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I 
know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely 
die). 

5 

Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land  amid  cities, 
Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the 

violets  peeped  from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray 

debris, 


396  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields,  each  side  of  the  lanes,  pj 

sing  the  endless  grass, 
Passing  the  yellow-speared  wheat,  every  grain  from  i1 

shroud  in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 
Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the 

orchards, 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  dark( 

ing  the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inlooped  flags  with  the  citic 

draped  in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crai 

veiled  women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaux 

of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea 

faces  and  the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin  and  tl 

sombre  faces, 
With   dirges   through   the   night,   with  the  thousai 

voices  rising  strong  and  solemn, 
With  all  the  mournful  voices   of  the   dirges   poui 

around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-light  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs 

where  amid  these  you  journey, 
With  the  tolling,  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 


(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone,— 
Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring; 
For,  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  soi 
for  you,  O  sane  and  sacred  death. 


WALT  WHITMAN  399 

12 

Lo,  body  and  soul — this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and 

hurrying  tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North 

in  the  light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  covered  with  grass 

and  corn. 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 
The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 
The  miracle  spreading,  bathing  all,  the  fulfilled  noon, 
The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the 

stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

13 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird! 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses j  pour  your  chant 

from  the  bushes, 
Limitless-  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul — O  wondrous  singer ! 

You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me  (but  will  soon 

depart) , 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

14 

/ 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  looked  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of 

spring,  and  the  farmers1  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its 

lakes  and  forests, 


400 


MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the  perturbed 
winds  and  the  storms), 

Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  pass- 
ing, and  the  voices  of  children  and  women, 

The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how 
they  sailed, 

And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the 
fields  all  busy  with  labor, 

And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on, 
each  with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 

And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbbed,  and  the 
cities  pent — lo,  then  and  there, 

Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping 
me  with  the  rest, 

Appeared  the  cloud,  appeared  the  long  black  trail, 

And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowl- 
edge of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side 
of  me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side 
of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  hold- 
ing the  hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp 
in  the  dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so 
still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  received  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  received  us  comrades  three, 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I 

love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  sti 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 


WALT   WHITMAN  401 

And  the  charm  of  ihe  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe, 
For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother,  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come, 
come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  deliveress! 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joyously 

sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  0  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee,  I  propose,  saluting  thee,  adornments 
and  f eastings  for  thee; 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high- 
spread  sky  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 
night — 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose 

voice  I  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  0  vast  and  well-veiled 

death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 


402  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad 

fields  and  the  prairies  wide, 
Over   the   dense-packed   cities    all   and    the   teeming 

wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  0  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 
With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading,  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was-  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierced 

with  missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and 

torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs  (and  all 

in  silence), 
And  the  staffs  all  splintered  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them ; 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of 

the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, — 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffered  not: 
The  living  remained  and  suffered,  the  mother  suffered, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade 

suffered. 


WALT  WHITMAN  403 

16 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Pass-ing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrade's  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying 

song  of  my  soul, 

Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever- 
altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  fall- 
ing, flooding  the  night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning, 

and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  re- 
cesses, 

Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  return- 
ing with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west, 

communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous,  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrieveinents  out  of  the  night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  aroused  in  my  soul, 
With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  counte- 
nance full  of  woe. 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of 

the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory 

ever  to  keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands 

— and  this  for  his  dear  sake, 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my 

soul, 

There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and 
dim. 


404  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


O  CAPTAIN!     MY  CAPTAIN! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done ; 
The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 

is  won ; 
The  port   is   near,   the  bells   I   hear,   the   people  all 

exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring. 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells : 
Rise  up ! — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribboned  wreaths1 — for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding; 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning. 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  nor  pulse  nor 

will; 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  following  works  on  American  literature  may 
be  mentioned  as  especially  helpful  to  the  student : 

American  Literature  (1607-1885).  C.  F.  Richard- 
son. 2  vols.  1887.  Putnam. 

A  History  of  American  Literature  during  the  Colo- 
nial Time.  M.  C.  Tyler.  2  vols.  1878.  Put- 
nam. 

Poets  of  America.  E.  C.  Stedman.  1885.  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 

The  Literary  History  of  the  American  Revolution. 
M.  C.  Tyler.  2  vols.  1897. 

Chronological  Outlines  of  American  Literature.  S. 
L.  Whitcomb.  1894.  Macmillan. 

American  Literature.  J.  Hawthorne  and  L.  Lem- 
mon.  1892.  Heath. 

American  Literature.  Brander  Matthews.  1896. 
Appleton. 

A  Reader's  Handbook  of  American  Literature.  T. 
AY.  Higginson  and  H.  W.  Boynton.  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 

Literary  History  of  America.  Barrett  Wendell. 
1900.  Scribner. 

America  in  Literature.  George  E  Woodberry. 
Harper. 

American  Literature  (in  the  "Literatures  of  the 
World"  series).  W.  P.  Trent.  1903.  Apple- 
ton. 


406  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Literary  Leaders  of  America.  Kichard  Burton. 
1904.  Scribner. 

History  of  Historical  Writing  in  America.  J.  F. 
Jameson.  1891. 

The  New  England  Poets.     W.  C.  Lawton.     1898. 

A  History  of  American  Verse.  J.  L.  Onderdonk. 
1901. 

A  most  excellent  series  is  "The  American  Men  of 
Letters/'  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Com- 
pany, in  which  appear  all  the  authors  included  in 
the  present  volume. 

Those  desiring  to  consult  a  good  anthology  may 
be  referred  to  the  Library  of  American  Authors 
(1608-1889),  edited  by  E.  C.  Stedman  and  E.  M. 
Hutchinson,  in  eleven  volumes.  1888-1890.  Chas. 
L.  Webster  and  Company.  American  History  Told 
by  Contempories  by  A.  B.  Hart  (4  vols.,  1897-1901), 
American  Prose  by  G.  K.  Carpenter  (1898). 

Also  worthy  of  mention  are  An  American  Anthol- 
ogy by  E.  C.  Stedman  ( 1900 ) ,  Southern  Literature 
by  Louise  Manly  (revised,  1900),  Colonial  Prose 
and  Poetry  by  W.  P.  Trent  and  B.  W.  Wells  (3  vols. 
1901). 

The  student  is  referred  to  the  following  special 
works  for  a  detailed  study  of  the  authors  included 
in  the  present  volume: 

FRANKLIN.  The  definitive  edition  of  Franklin's 
works  is  A.  H.  Smyth's,  in  10  volumes 
(1906),  which  also  contains  a  biography. 
See  also  J.  B.  Me  Master's  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin in  the  "American  Men  of  Letters"  series 
(1887). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  407 

IRVING.  There  are  several  editions  of  Irving's 
complete  works.  His  Life  and  Letters  were 
edited  by  P.  M.  Irving  (4  vols.,  1862-64).  See 
Charles  Dudley  Warner's  Irving  in  "Ameri- 
can Men  of  Letters"  (1881). 

COOPER.  There*  are  various  editions  of  Cooper's 
novels  including  his  "Leatherstocking"  and 
"Sea  Tales."  His  miscellaneous  writings  are 
out  of  print.  See  T.  R.  Lounsbury's  Cooper 
in  "American  Men  of  Letters"  (1883). 

POE.  Among  the  early  editions  of  Poe  may  be  men- 
tioned Griswold's  (3  vols.,  1850,  vol.  4, 
1856),  Ingram's  (4  vols.,  1874-5),  Stod- 
dard's  ( 6  vols.,  1884 ) ;  among  the  more  recent 
editions  are  Stedman  and  Woodberry's  (10 
vols.,  1894-5),  Harrison's  Virginia  edition 
(17  vols.,  1902),  Richardson's  Arnheim  edi- 
tion (1902).  Among  the  biographies  are 
Griswold's  (1850),  Gill's  (1877-8),  Ingram's 
(2  vols.,  1880),  and  new  edition  (in  1  vol., 
1886),  Woodberry's  (1885)  in  "American 
Men  of  Letters,"  Stedman  and  Woodberry's 
(1894),  and  Harrison's  (1902). 

PRESCOTT.  The  standard  edition  of  Prescott's  works 
is  by  John  Foster  Kirk  (16  vols.,  1870-74). 
Ticknor's  biography  appeared  in  1864  and 
Rollo  Ogden's  in  "American  Men  of  Letters," 
in  1904. 

HAWTHORNE.  The  standard  edition  of  Hawthorne 
is  the  Riverside,  in  12  vols.  The  biographies 
include  Julian  Hawthorne's  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne and  his  Wife  (2  vols.,  1885),  Henry 
James's  Hawthorne  in  "English  Men  of  Let- 
ters" (1879),  Moncure  Conway's  Hawthorne 


408  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

in  "Great  Writers"  (1890),  G.  E.  Wood- 
berry's,  in  "American  Men  of  Letters" 
(1902)  and  G.  P.  Lathrop's  A  Study  of  Haw- 
thorne (1876). 

EMERSON.  The  standard  edition  of  Emerson  is  the 
Eiverside,  in  12  vols.  The  biographies  in- 
clude J.  E.  Cabot's  Memoir  (2  vols.,  1887), 
Holmes's  Emerson  in  "American  Men  of  Let- 
ters" (1884),  and  Kichard  Garnett's,  in 
"Great  Writers"  (1888).  C.  E.  Norton 
edited  the  Carlyle-Emerson  correspondence 
(2  vols.,  1883).  See  Lowell's  Works,  vol.  1, 
and  J.  J.  Chapman's  Emerson  and  Other  Es- 
says (1898). 

BRYANT.  Parke  Godwin  edited  Bryant's  works, 
the  Poems  (2  vols.,  1883)  and  the  Prose  (2 
vols.,  1884).  His  complete  poetical  works 
are  published  by  the  Appletons.  Parke  God- 
win's Life  of  Bryant  (2  vols.)  appeared  in 
1883,  John  Bigelow's  Bryant  in  "American 
Men  of  Letters,"  in  1890.  See  J.  G.  Wilson's 
Bryant  and  His  Friends  (1886). 

LONGFELLOW.  The  standard  edition  of  Longfellow 
is  the  Riverside,  in  11  vols.  Samuel  Long- 
fellow's Life  and  Letters  (2  vols.,  1886)  and 
Final  Memorials  (1887)  of  his  brother 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  were  col- 
lected in  a  Life  (3  vols. ) ,  in  1891.  E.  S.  Rob- 
ertson's Longfellow  appeared  in  the  "Great 
Writers"  series  in  1887,  G.  R.  Carpenter's 
Longfellow  in  "Beacon  Biographies,"  in 
1901,  and  T.  W.  Higginson's  in  "American 
Men  of  Letters,"  in  1902. 

HOLMES.  The  standard  edition  of  Holmes  is  the 
Riverside,  in  13  vols.  His  Life  and  Letters 
(2  vols.)  were  edited  by  J.  T.  Morse  (2  vols., 
1896). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  409 

WHITTIER.  The  standard  edition  of  Whittier  is  the 
Riverside,  in  7  vols.  His  authorized  biogra- 
phy is  the  Life  and  Letters  by  T.  S.  Pickard 
(2  vols.,  1894).  In  addition,  may  be  men- 
tioned J.  W.  Linton's  Whittier  in  "Great 
Writers"  (1893),  T.  W.  Higginson's,  in 
"English  Men  of  Letters"  (1902),  and  G.  E. 
Carpenter's,  in  "American  Men  of  Letters" 
(1902). 

LOWELL.  The  standard  edition  of  Lowell's  works 
is  the  Kiverside,  in  11  vols.  His  Letters  were 
edited  by  C.  E.  Norton  (2  vols.,  1893).  His 
biographies  include  H.  E.  Scudder's  Lowell 
(2  vols.,  1901),  E.  E.  Hale's  James  Russell 
Lowell  and  his  Friends  (1899)  and  S.  M. 
Crother's  Lowell  in  "American  Men  of  Let- 
ters." See  also  Ho  well's  Literary  Friends 
and  Acquaintances  (1900). 

LANIER.  Lanier's  Poems  were  edited  by  J.  H. 
Ward,  and  there  is  an  edition  of  Select  Poems 
with  a  Life  by  Morgan  Callaway  (1895). 
The  English  Novel  and  the  Science  of  Eng- 
lish Verse  were  published  by  the  Scribners. 
A  recent  biography  of  Lanier  is  that  by 
Edwin  Mims  in  "American  Men  of  Letters" 
(1906). 

WHITMAN.  The  numerous  editions  of  Leaves  of 
Grass  and  Complete  Prose  Works  (1898) 
have  been  superseded  by  the  elaborate  edi- 
tion of  Whitman,  published  in  1902.  Among 
the  biographies  of  Whitman  are  H.  B.  Binn's 
Life  of  Walt  Whitman,  Horace  Traubel's 
With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden  and  Bliss 
Perry's  Walt  Whitman  (1906).  The  author- 
ized biography  of  Whitman  is  Dr.  K.  M. 
Bucke's  (1883).  See  also  the  special  studies 


410  MAKERS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

by  J.  A.  Symonds  (1893),  John  Burroughs 
(1896),  W.  N.  Guthrie  (1897),  Stephenson, 
Dowden,  Chapman,  and  In  re  Walt  Wit  it- 
man  (1893). 

The  following  books,  though  in  a  lighter  vein  as 
being  reminiscential  or  anecdotal,  are  yet  worth 
while,  since  they  throw  interesting  sidelights  upon 
our  American  authors : 

T.  W.  Higginson,  Old  Cambridge  (1899),  and 
Cheerful  Yesterdays  (Houghton,  Mifflin  and 
Co.). 

E.  P.  Whipple,  Recollections  of  Eminent  Men 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Co.). 

M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe,  American  Book  Men  (Dodd, 
Mead  and  Co. ) . 

Mrs.  James  T.  Fields,  Authors  and  Friends 
( Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Co. ) . 

W.  D.  Howells,  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaint- 
ances (Harper). 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Reminiscences  (Houghton, 
Mifflin  and  Co.). 


14  DAY  USE 

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